A Bit Not Good
by VulpineBeesKnees
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Sherlock returns to Baker Street after three years. Can Sherlock Holmes and John Watson find a way to fix the damage that's been done or will Moriarty's mysterious return prove to be too much for the Baker Street Boys?
1. Prologue - A letter to Sherlock

To my dear friend,

It's been two months since I went with Mrs. Hudson to see your grave for the first time. I was supposed to say goodbye then, but I didn't. Instead I begged you to still be alive, I suppose I'm still doing that.

You would have hated the funeral service. It was dull, and emotional. Mycroft and your mother insisted that I sat at the front with them. Would you have wanted that?

I just moved back into the flat this week, it was too hard at first, just being here without you. I was surprised when I called Mrs. Hudson to see if she had new tenants, to see where she'd put everything I'd just left there… all of our things I mean. Well it turns out Mycroft paid for the flat while I was gone, so everything stayed exactly as I'd left it. Does he know you're still alive too? Or does he just feel bad for me? I can never tell.

When I got back to the flat Mrs. Hudson had organized all the mail for me. I think she threw out the terrible ones. Enough mail made it to Harry's, I know exactly what most people think... but she left all the nice ones. I'll put my favorites in this box after I've finished going through them. Not to mention I have enough frozen casseroles to feed me through the rest of the year. Which is good, because I rather don't feel like cooking.

I stayed with Harry for a while, before I moved back into the flat I mean. She's cleaned up a lot. Kinda funny, once I needed her she stepped up. I don't know what I would have done without her through all of this. I told her I'm sure you're out there. She didn't tell me I was crazy or anything, just asked what you could be doing that was so important that you couldn't let me know you were okay.

I couldn't answer her. Moriarty is dead, I don't know what you could be doing. Hopefully I don't have to wait too long to find out.

This had to be a plan…. it just had to be. The fake call about Mrs. Hudson, making me stay where I was out on the street. You're just too clever for that bastard to have beaten you that easily, not after everything I've seen you do. And don't worry, I didn't believe a word of what you said on the phone. You're a hero Sherlock. You always have been and it kills me that no one told you that before you left.

I'm not sure what I should do with this letter. I know you're still out there. You have to be. I thought about giving it to Mycroft. He checks up on me quite a bit, I'm pretty sure he knows you're alive, but if he doesn't… I don't want it getting lost. I suppose I'll just hold onto it, put it in the box till you come home.

So, there's not much else to say I suppose. I'm carrying on, it's what we do right? I suppose if you don't come back, one day I'll have admit you may be gone. But I'm not saying goodbye. I won't do it.

God please Sherlock. Just… For me… Come back… Come back so I can give you this ridiculous letter, so I can show the whole damn world that you are as brilliant as I see you. You can leave body parts wherever you like, well not wherever, but I'll try not to complain when you leave them next to the leftovers. I really will.

And Sherlock, I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry for everything I said before I left you that day. You are not a machine, you are brilliant and human and the most wonderful person I have ever known. I just want to be able to tell you that.

Come home soon so I can. Please.

Yours always,

John Hamish Watson


	2. Don't Let Me Go

John stopped on the stoop of 221B to look cautiously down the street. The shadow had disappeared. Someone had been following him for a few days now, three that he had noticed at least. It couldn't have been a reporter, they were far too obnoxious to stay anonymous that long, besides he was old news. Most likely it was some psychopath that thought they could be the next Sherlock Holmes or, worse yet, Moriarty.

Satisfied that he hadn't been followed home tonight John went inside, locking both locks tightly behind him. He was glad Mrs. Hudson was out for the weekend with her sister. Hopefully he could get this all worked out before she got home. She had done so much for him over the past few years, it wasn't right to mix her up in it all, not any more.

Once upstairs he beelined for the kitchen to make himself the cuppa he so desperately needed at this point. His phone chirped from across the room, alerting him that he had a text message, but John continued fixing his tea, ignoring the phone. It was probably Harry or Mycroft, or even Lestrade. Between the three of them he got at least a text a day. It was funny how many times they stopped by just to say hello, or called him just to see what he was doing. They were worried about him, and for good reason too. John knew he had gone downhill since Sherlock left. His psychiatrist had tried to insist that he continue blogging, but how could he? That was part of his life with Sherlock.

After finishing the tea he had settled into his armchair with a novel, forcing himself to stare at the empty seat across from him. The oversized armchair had begun to collect dust, but as painful a memory as it was, John couldn't stand the thought of getting rid of it. Mrs. Hudson had long since given up trying to tidy up after him. He had yelled at her one too many times for trying to move Sherlock's things.

Finally settled in for the evening he opened his phone.

I'm not dead. Let's have dinner. SH

His tea slipped from the arm of the couch with a thud, as the hot liquid soaked into the throw rug, but he managed to gain hold of the phone. The logical side of John's brain told him this was another game. Another trick, but the other side begged to differ. How would anyone but him know to say that? With shaking fingers he replied.

What took you so long? JW

It wasn't safe for anyone. It still really isn't, but life is boring, and I know you can handle yourself. SH

Boring. Such a ridiculously overused word when it came to Sherlock. That didn't prove anything, seen as anyone that had ever met him would know of Sherlock's attachment to the term. John was shaking all over slightly as he responded again.

Why should I believe this? You honestly expect me to believe it took three years for Sherlock Holmes to get bored? JW

Yes well, even being plagued by my own boredom was better than putting certain lives at risk. I feel the trouble has died down enough for now. Enough that anything could be handled that was thrown our way. However John… my life seems to be increasingly dull without my blogger. If you don't believe me just look out your window. SH

Hurrying from his seat, now dropping his novel on the ground with the forgotten teacup, John scrambled to the window. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust so that he could actually see anything out on the dark street, but when they did his breath caught in his chest. Sure enough, there he was, as same as ever. Sherlock, or the man whom John assumed was the detective, was standing next to the tagged phone booth across the street from the flat. He couldn't see his face, not really. What he could see was the old coat, with his collar popped up, his hand shoved deep in the pockets. Fleeing from the window he made his way down the steps of 221b, and stopped at the front door. After taking a deep breath John pulled the door open, but he didn't run out. Instead he just stood in the doorway staring at the man he had believed to be dead.

To be fair, a part of him had always wanted to believe he was alive. Hell, he returned to the grave site too many times, begging Sherlock to return. So this was what he had asked for, right? John stayed in the doorway, staring incredulously at the dark figure across the way.

Of course it was Sherlock Holmes standing down on the street. He had been following John for days trying to see just how much damage had been done. Mycroft had warned him that John hadn't taken the detectives death well, but it seemed like sure understatement. The doctors life had grown monotonous and rather dull, which meant of course that his cane was back. Surely if the cane was back so were other things, like his nightmares, and his disinterest in keeping himself healthy and well. Hopefully, Sherlock thought to himself bitterly, he would be able to fix the damage he'd caused to the both of them three years before.

The lines on the doctor's face were deeper, as if he'd been aged more than the three years they'd been parted. His hair was a little disheveled, probably from running his hand through it, but it was the expression on his face that pierced Sherlock. The way John looked at him as if he couldn't believe this was truly happening.

With a swirl of his black coat, he was crossing the street, mindful of taxis, and shortly he was taking the few steps from the street to the stoop of their door. He stopped a few inches away from the shorter man, standing on the step and looking down, his head tilted so that he didn't come off as haughty as he usually would.

"Hello John." He said softly, his eyes brightened at the sight of his one and only friend.

Running a nervous hand over his face, pulling at his lips slightly John breathed out a mangled mess of words. "Jesus fuck- how?" Finding his voice he spoke a little more solidly, "I saw you Sherlock. You were dead." His voice shook as his eyes jutted around, taking in everything that was Sherlock. It was definitely the same coat, but it looked slightly more worn, the only real sign that anything had changed over the past three years. That and how thin Sherlock was. The hallowed skin forced his prominent cheekbones to the surface even more. John reached out slightly, pressing his fingertips into Sherlock's chest, as if he wasn't sure he was really there.

Sherlock normally didn't like being touched, but the three years apart had felt like lifetimes, and he owed John this much. The fingers were warm as they rest on his chest, and Sherlock was sure John was needing the physical reassurance that he was indeed here and alive to be able to process through the shock of his sudden reappearance. Shifting his weight he pressed forward a bit, allowing that hand to press flat against his chest. One cold hand came up to circle John's wrist and he tipped his head down, catching the doctors eyes with his own.

"It's alright. I'm alive..." he said. Comfort was not his thing, but he was sure John was in sore need of it. He'd asked Mycroft often how the man was doing, but the reports from his brother were never good. He'd worried for the doctor while he'd been away, which was odd for him. Normally, his mind was so focused elsewhere that sentiment for others was so far from his thought process that he often came across callous. However the circumstances of his false death had made him more aware of the true danger and consequences others suffered because of him. Now as he looked down at his old flat mate, he knew his brother hadn't been telling him the whole truth.

Spending so long away from John had made the detective realize that his life had changed, and for the better, when he had entered his life. After his false suicide, things had gone back to the way they were before John had limped into his life. He felt miserable. Without John there to pester him to eat, sleep, and stay off the drugs, he had remissed into his former self. He felt utterly childish for depending on the man so much, but he knew that the doctor depended on him too. In very different ways yes, but the bond was still there. The changes that had been made to his life in recent days made him acutely aware of how much his life had improved and how much the doctor actually helped his thought process. He hadn't realized how much he had come to depend on John to tell him when the things he did were a bit not good. If John had been with him, things might have been different, but without him the world had seemed bleak and easy. John had told him once that just because it was easy didn't make it right, but easy was just a word to Sherlock. Nothing was ever easy or difficult. Just a problem that he solved, so the proverb was easily lost on him without his blonde conscience following him around.

"John... I'm home..."

Pulling his hand away, startled by the skin on skin contact and the realization that Sherlock was honestly standing in front of him. John let out a choked sob muffled by his hand now pressed against his mouth. There were no tears, just a wave of emotions as his mind absorbed the fact that the past three years had been a lie.

John shook his head softly as he breathed through his nose heavily, trying to center himself. When he had finally regained control he let his hand fall back to his side listlessly. His mind ran over the many scenarios, how this could be happening, how Sherlock could possibly be alive. But all he could see was Sherlock plummeting from the building, his blood staining the concrete. There had been no pulse.

Of course Sherlock could pull off some sort mad escape, so the next question that begged for an answer loomed in his mind painfully. When he spoke his voice was harsh, cruel, and pained.

"Why?"

He knew Sherlock would understand all of the why's he needed answered. Why did he leave? Why did he lie to him? Why did he wait three years before coming back? Why?

For the first time in Sherlock's life, he wanted to reach out and touch someone for more than just information gathering, but he refused himself. He could see all the pain he'd caused the man lined out before him now. The hand against his mouth to keep from letting more than that initial cry escape, then the measures to keep himself calm. Sherlock knew he was selfish, but this, this had all been to keep them safe. It was not right that by following him blindly they had been put into danger too. His brows knit together and he clenched his fists at his side to squash the strange feelings inside of him.

"John there are so many answers to that simple question. I will answer what I can, but there are some I will not. It's better off you do not know all of the details." He looked away for a moment, then back at the doctor, " I did it to save..." He sighed and tried to think of the right words to adequately explain the entire crazy situation.

"Moriarty had three trained assassins ready to kill the people I was closest to. If they didn't see me jump, those people would be dead. He killed himself before I could force him to call them off, and to be completely honest, it was something I expected from him, but I had no idea how to counteract it." His eyes captured the doctors then, and practically demanded John to understand. "It wasn't safe for me to be around after that. I've been taking care of things these last three years."

The words seemed to register somewhere deep within John as he nodded blindly. Of course there were reasons. Moriarty, yes he had been dead on top of the building as well. Nobody really cared after Sherlock's jump though. No one seemed to know what had happened.

With a slight limp he stood to the side, wordlessly inviting Sherlock inside. His voice softened as he spoke again, but it still cracked slightly, riddled with emotions. "We can talk about it over tea."

Tea. Tea would make it right.

Tea was his answer to everything. After all the breakups a good cuppa and John would be better at pretending he was alright. All the times Harry called for something and they got in a row, a good cup of tea would fix things. However, Sherlock knew that doubt was there, and that a good cup of tea was not going to make everything okay. There were rifts in their friendship that could take a lifetime to rebuild.

John had swept up the stairs as quickly and fluidly as he could, given the reemergence of his limp. He didn't try and hide it, not from Sherlock. Partly because he now realized that Sherlock had been the mysterious shadow that had been following him for the past few days, there was no way he hadn't already noted the fact that John was dependent upon the cane when he was out and about, and partially because he wanted Sherlock to know what the past three years had done to him.

Sherlock followed John upstairs, and held a hand up when the man moved to start the kettle. He figured he at least owed him a hot cuppa. Hoping that John would sit, he moved to take the kettle back to the stove to warm it back up. It was still warm but not hot from the tea John had made earlier. He could see the mug on the carpet from here and knew that Mrs. Hudson would have a fit over it later.

But, when Sherlock took over he simply stood dumbly as he watched Sherlock prep the tea. After a moment he backed up so he was leaning against the counter in the middle of kitchen. He took the time to attempt to organize his thoughts. Finally deciding on where he wanted to start John spoke softly, hurt and confusion reflected in his eyes.

"Why so long? I mean fine, you were forced to, Moriarty was going to kill people but. . . . Why so long?"

The past three years had been hell for John. His PTSD had quickly resurfaced but his nightmares were now riddled with Sherlock as well.

The detective pulled out a pair of mugs and started measuring out sugar for himself and tea bags for each of them. He didn't answer for a long time, and when he finally did, he turned around, leaning against the counter, his hands on either side of his hips, resting the heels on the edge. How could he truly tell John what he had been doing for the past three years? The doctor would surely leave after hearing that, or tell him to. They had been through so much already.

"I've been taking care of things." He said authoritatively, letting John know this was one topic he would not elaborate on, "I've been making sure that nobody else would die from my tangle with Moriarty." He let his eyes meet John's and he could read measured calmness in them. He was trying, "Please don't ask me to tell you more than that."

Anger ebbed into John's voice, he could feel his pulse rising. "You show up after three bloody years, when you're supposed to be dead, and you have nothing to say? What can you tell me then?!"

John knew he should be happy, and he was, in a way. But he couldn't get over the fact that Sherlock was supposed to be dead. John had spent the first year after the fall trying to accept that. It was the hardest thing he had ever done. John didn't realize that as he spoke he was beginning to shake. Just his hands at first, but it quickly spread to a tremor across his entire body. Even his breath was shaky.

Sherlock simply could not. It was very rare that he ever even thought that phrase, but he couldn't bear the thought of losing John due to his good intentions. He shook his head and took a step forward. His hands fluttered around like they weren't quite sure what to do, but they finally rested on John's upper arms. "Do not mistake my hesitance to explain myself as an unwillingness to speak." He was becoming frustrated with the doctor, as he often did when having to explain something that seemed so obvious. For the millionth time since he met the doctor, he wondered why John couldn't just understand.

"There are just some things I can't tell you. Isn't it enough to know that I am not dead, and that I have spent the last three years of my life doing something bigger than myself? I did not spend it in the shadows protecting the ignorant like Mrs. Hudson, just to have you condemn me for things I can't tell you." He had expected John's anger, and was surprised he hadn't received a well placed fist to the face yet. But, just because he expected it did not mean he was going to lie down and take it without defense.

His fingers were digging into John's arms a bit in his frustration. Sherlock held onto him for a moment longer, searching his eyes for understanding before he released him and turned away as the kettle boiled, mildly agitated at the doctor's obvious anger. He was thankful the tea had boiled, he didn't want to see his mistakes reflected through the blonde anymore. Things seemed so much worse through his eyes.

"At least let things settle down first. Things are strained between us John, I know you know it. Can you not just let it be for a while? I know you owe me nothing, but please, save the questioning of where I've been and what I've been doing until we are both sure the other will not up and disappear." He bit his cheek at those last words. They were meant to have been internalized, but somehow they had fought their way through his lips.

As Sherlock's hands left John to tend to the boiling water John slipped to the ground, the shock finally getting to him. His back was pressed against the cabinets behind him as he glared up at Sherlock incredulously. "Let things settle?" He was shaking his head slightly. "Bloody hell Sherlock." Dropping his head to his hand he let out a deep sigh, pinching his furrowed brow between his thumb and forefinger. He couldn't seem to form a coherent sentence as his anger gave way and his head swam. John pressed the palms of his hands into eyes trying to focus as he continued to shake his head. His breathing was rapid and short, even John could tell he was beginning to suffer from minor shock. Without looking back up at Sherlock he spat bitterly, "You can't just show up with hardly any explanation and expect a sodding cup of tea to fix things." John knew he'd suggested the tea, but Sherlock was the one that had taken over. John would be damned if he thought that he could win forgiveness that easily.

Sherlock poured the hot water into the cups and let it steep. His hands were on the counter, fully extended his head hung as he waited for the tea to brew. Then he heard John speak. His frustration flared into anger for a moment before he tamped it back down. Turning to look at him, he could see everything John had been thinking. Running a hand through his hair in frustration, he wanted to tug it out. He was torn between knowing he deserved John's anger, and wanting to lash out at him because no matter how he'd gone about it, he had spent the last three years saving people. Wasn't that what John had been wanting him to do the whole time they'd been together before? He'd wanted him to be compassionate, to care for others, but now that he had done this on his own John was reprimanding him for it.

He took a deep breath and told himself John had no way of knowing all that he'd given up and done to protect the innocents that surrounded him. He supposed he'd developed a sort of martyr mindset when he had put this plan into action, but he hadn't thought about what his actions had really done to others. Perhaps he had not exactly had their best interests in mind after all. At least not effectively.

"I'm not asking for your forgiveness John." He removed the teabags and stirred in some milk from the fridge. When he returned the carton and closed the door, he stayed with his back to the doctor for a long moment. "I haven't earned it. You have no clue what I've been doing, and I can't tell you. Not yet. I don't expect you to leap into my arms telling me how happy you are that I've come back, or that I'm not dead. I fully expected a violent reaction, but, that doesn't mean that I'm going to sit by without defending myself or attempting to make peace with you. The past three years have been difficult for the both of us. We have both suffered and each have our own reasons."

He turned around then, moving to the counter to take their cups and squatted down in front of the doctor, the cup extended to him, "Is amiable such a bad way for me to be?"

Taking the cup, without meeting Sherlock's gaze, John considered what was being said. He had forgotten just how painfully logical the detective could be. Unable to come up with a retort John spoke softly, "You're really back then. For good?"

"Yes, I'm back for good." He chuckled softly and moved to sit next to John, leaning against the cabinets.

John sipped at the tea slowly even though the liquid was far too hot. The painful sensation helped bring him back to reality. "If you ever do anything like that again. . . . " His voice trailed off. He didn't know what he would do, but he just couldn't handle anything like this again. He led the sentence dangle in between them as he stared into the swirling liquid.

Sherlock nodded. He knew the unspoken words the doctor was trying to say but couldn't voice. Moriarty had forced them apart, and due to that fact they had both regressed to their former selves. Being together made them better, and their strengths made up for each other's weaknesses. If something like this happened again, there was a good chance neither of them would make it back to where they'd been before his fall.

After taking another sip he held up the cup a bit, looking at Sherlock. "You remembered?" It was a question more than a statement. John was rather surprised Sherlock had remembered after all this time.

"Mind Palace..." he said. He had that urge to touch John again. It was how normal people expressed emotion or concern he had gathered. Taking a sip of his own hot tea, he gently placed his hand on John's knee. He'd thought he'd be revolted by the feeling, never having really liked physical contact, but something was different. He felt as if he were comforting his friend, and in turn he felt comforted a little as well.

There was a whole wing in his mind palace just for John. It was a part of how he'd gotten by over the past three years. He could ask himself what would John say if he were here and he wouldn't have to guess. He had meant it when he told John he didn't have friends. He only had one, which was why he had a section in his mind allotted to him. But Sherlock wasn't sure if he could still consider John his friend. The man was angry, and rightly so, and he worried that this time that anger might not ever ebb away.

"I left you for three years, and I have no idea whether you will be willing for me to stay or not. I had assumed you would, but it was based upon falsified information, and now I am at a loss. Given the new data I've observed since my stepping into the flat, I believe it could go either way." he shook his head and looked away, into his tea, anywhere but at John, "You have every right to be angry, but there are things I have done, things I have seen that I don't want to risk dropping on the fragile remains of your trust in me..." He sighed and finally turned to the doctor, looking at him now. "I don't want you to think that I'm keeping things from you either."

John nodded curtly and downed the last of his tea. Part of him wanted to tell Sherlock of course he wanted him to stay. He had been waiting for three years and pissed as he was John wasn't about to kick him out, but the words wouldn't come. Placing the cup on the ground he set his hand on top of Sherlocks, still slightly amazed by the feel of Sherlock's skin against his own. A physical reminder that this wasn't some sick hallucination, and the only gesture he could manage to show Sherlock that right now, he needed him to stay.

"It's surreal you know. You being here. I had dreams sometimes, you would show up with some amazing story as to how you weren't really dead. Other times they were nightmares. I should have known that call about Mrs. Hudson was fake. I shouldn't have left you." The guilt that had eaten away at him over the past three years began spilling out. "The things I said, when I left. I didn't mean that. I don't really think that you're a m... Just... I'm here for you. I am. It's just going to take time for me to adjust, for me to understand. I get that you can't tell me everything right now, fine. But when things are better, between us I mean, I need you to tell me everything. I have to know."

"I know... after so long, being able to talk to you, not having to hide..." he shook his head, not wanting to reveal too much. "It's good to be back home." He was secretly glad that John was asking him to stay, and his fingers flexed slightly under the doctor's reveling in the feel, mapping it out so he would always remember it later.

"And you had every right to say those things. Sometimes I do tend to be more like a machine, times when I need someone to remind me that I'm not just an intelligence, but, that's why I have you." He turned, an eyebrow raising as if that could add an implied question mark at the end of his statement. "However, when things are better..." he promised, "I will tell you everything."

Sherlock took a deep breath and held it for a moment. What he had to say next he knew would be tough both for him to say and for the doctor to hear. He let the breath out slowly before continuing. "Without you to nag me about it, I've fallen back into some habits that were easier to deny before. I'll need your help John. You're the only one who has ever been able to enable me to change some of my distasteful character traits." His chest felt clear, and the weight that had settled over him since the moment he'd watched his best friend fall apart at his grave started to lift.

John pulled his hand away to run it through his hair nervously. "How bad did things get, for you I mean?" He knew Sherlock had many distasteful habits, some worse than others, and the fact that he was asking for help said everything

Sherlock felt the loss deeper than he should as John pulled his hand back, but he tried not to draw too much from it. There went the calm and ease. Once he showed this to John, there was no going back. He knew John was about to get angry again, and he knew he deserved every bit of that anger, but he also knew he didn't want to lose the doctor due to hiding things from him, and in the end, John was the only person he could count on. Fingers shaking, he reached for his cuffs and began to roll them up. Slowly, alabaster skin was revealed, and he rolled both sleeves up to the bicep, showing John exactly what he had meant.

On both arms, there were raw, blotchy red spots from where the nicotine patches had been slapped, ripped off, then replaced a few too many times. The inside of one arm was covered in a large self adhesive bandage, the other was bruised and several track marks were visible. He averted his eyes, unwilling to watch the disappointment he knew was coming travel over John's face. He felt raw, and naked in front of the man, bearing all his flaws as if they were jewelry. Clenching his jaw, he stared blankly at the wall, eyes unfocused.

"I wish I'd never left."


	3. Don't Speak

Sherlock had been gone for three years, so it really shouldn't have been a surprise, but as the detective rolled up his sleeves one at a time John was sure the world was moving in slow motion. He could feel his heart beating in his throat from the anticipation. There was a small hiss as John inhaled through clenched teeth, it was worse than he had expected. The doctor in John moved quickly so that he was on his knees in front of Sherlock holding the unbandaged arm a little tighter than entirely necessary. His eyes scoured the skin, taking in every detail.

He ran a shaky finger from the inside of Sherlocks elbow down to his wrist, avoiding the painful marks as he worked his way through the maze, Sherlock cringed slightly at the touch. When John looked up at Sherlock his eyes finally blazed with the anger that Sherlock had been expecting.

His jaw was set tightly, trying not to completely unleash on the detective. Fingers dug into Sherlock's arm before John finally spoke. "Did you even plan on coming back? Or were you planning on making a clean break of it all? Offing yourself for good this time!" John's voice broke slightly at the end as he dropped the damaged limb, as if it burned him to touch it.

Sherlock felt his hackles rise and bit back a growl. How could John ask that? How could he think that the detective of all people was truly suicidal? His fingers caught John's arm as it pulled away, not allowing him to shrink back. "You know nothing of the horrors I've seen." as he hissed, his fingers tightened around John's forearm, "Offing myself, as you say, would have been the easy way out. Wasn't it you who told me that if it was easy it was wrong? Yes I took some drugs, I muddled my way through the past few years by using them. It is my cane, it is my psychosomatic limp, so don't you dare reprimand me. I'm making the right decision now, I am asking for your help. That is what matters. You asked me if I ever planned on coming back, John I never planned to leave. I was forced to."

John kept his eyes on Sherlock's the entire time, his words cutting into the doctor painfully. Rage rolled off the detective in waves, they were running in circles. John's arm relaxed in Sherlock's grip as he dropped his head slightly, breaking their gaze. He was realizing that Sherlock had been through the same hell he had over the past three years, probably worse, and frankly, they needed each other. When he looked back to Sherlock there was something else ebbing in over the anger. Pity.

John pitied Sherlock for being alone for so long. His mind fell back to the nights he spent away from Sherlock during their years together. He would come home to find half the kitchen destroyed from the nights experiments, knives dug deep into table tops(assumingly thrust down into the wood top in anger), and on some of the worst nights, when John chose not to bring his gun along with him, he would come home to find Sherlock deciding where to shoot the wall next.

But Sherlock was not some child who had lost his parents, he wasn't an orphaned puppy, he was a grown man with problems. Problems he was handling maturely by asking for help. His eyes met the doctor's once more, but the normal emotionless gaze was now shadowed by a frigid cloud.

Shaking his head, almost unconsciously as he breathed softly, "Sherlock. . ." He didn't have words for what he was seeing. "It's done. This." His eyes dropped back to the damage as his fingers wrapped gingerly around detectives arm once again. "All of this." Fingers pressed softly into the pale skin for emphasis as his voice hardened, "I'll help you, but you have to stop this."

"John, I came to you as a man about this. Don't pity me. I can't stand it." his tone was venomous, but the small squeeze on his pained arm softened the edge in Sherlock's voice slightly. "I know I can't do any more of it, but I also know I can't stop alone." He practically spat the words at his flatmate. He was not admitting defeat. He never would. He still had the mind to stop, and until he didn't, he still held himself above being broken by his addiction.

"I don't want to be who I've been for the past three years John. As long as I can still make that decision I do not need you to demand of me what needs to be done. I know I need to stop, Would I be asking for your help if I didn't?" His hands and arms were shaking in frustration as his fingers loosened around John's arm leaving red fingerprints where he had been gripping. When he spoke again, the icy tone had melted out of his voice, "I do however appreciate your concern."

John slowly pulled his arm back, subsequently releasing Sherlock's. John stayed there for a time, resting on the balls of his feet and still studying Sherlock. He knew that Sherlock wasn't truly angry with him, he was still here at least. But he also knew that his own reaction had not made Sherlock feel any better or more comfortable in the situation. It wasn't as if vulnerability was something Sherlock dealt with well.

Sherlock could see the thought process of the doctor as he deciphered Sherlock's less than pleasant reaction. When the shorter man had been watching him, Sherlock couldn't help but feel the way he assumed most people felt when the detective himself looked at people so intently. He felt exposed.

"No... No you wouldn't." John spoke softly, but much of the emotion had left his voice. If Sherlock was ready to admit that he needed help than he really was done with it all. He looked back up, into the piercing gaze, "We'll get through this Sherlock." We both will. It was an unspoken promise from John, Sherlock wasn't the only one with problems to work through.

After a moment his gaze fell to the floor in between them as his mind raced around what would come next. Giving a small, resolute nod, more to himself than to Sherlock, John stood up reaching a hand down for Sherlock, to help him up.

If there was one thing John knew about Sherlock it was that making him feel like he was less of man, less of a genius, less of anything really, would make the situation that much harder. Sherlock had to be in control of his mind, that was the most important thing, and John sidestepping him and 'pitying' him wasn't going to help at all.

"When was the last time you ate?" Sherlock appeared to be swimming in the familiar suit, if that was even possible. His gaunt cheekbones and long fingers seemed more defined than ever.

Rolling down his sleeves he stood, and straightened his creased button down shirt and worn jacket. He knew very well how awful he looked, he could see it reflected in John's eyes. Part of it was from the drugs, part of it was from malnourishment.

"I know I look dreadful.." He said, his eyes narrowing, "and to be honest I don't really know when the last time I ate was." His stomach growled as if trying to tell him exactly when the last time was and that it had been far too long ago. He rolled his eyes.

"My body seems to be in total confusion. I am hungry, but my mind tells me not to eat. Stopping for anything has been a risk I've rarely taken in the past three years..." He frowned. Why did everything keep coming back to this? His stomach growled again and he looked down at the offensive part of his body with an angry glare. "I'm afraid if I eat much of anything I may not be able to hold it down..."

"That's alright Sherlock." John began bustling around the kitchen in a flurry, the need to fix everything that was wrong with Sherlock all at once over taking his mind. "We'll start small, but you need to eat." The real awful thing about Sherlock's condition was that he was already self destructive before he left. If this lifestyle, whatever it had been over the past three years, had made not stopping to rest or eat a thing of survival, than his old destructive habits would have only been ingrained deeper.

Feeling slightly overwhelmed John stopped and spun on the spot, running his hand through his hair, trying to think. His eyes flicked back to Sherlock, he really was a mess. "How about you shower and I'll make you something to eat." He paused for a moment, unsure of how Sherlock would take the next bit of information, "I didn't move anything, in your room I mean. Everything's there."

Of course this was a good thing now, Sherlock would have clothes for one thing, and it would help them fall back into some sort of normal, but it revealed just how difficult it had been for John to let go. Even after two years of therapy, which he managed to fake his way out of in time, a part of him still clung to the idea that Sherlock would return. Even as strung out as Sherlock was John knew he wouldn't miss this fact. By telling Sherlock he hadn't moved his things he was essentially laying out the past three years for Sherlock.

He drew his bottom lip between his teeth, biting down on it softly as he waited for a response from Sherlock. Any reaction or flit of expression that would tell John what Sherlock was thinking.

John hadn't quite realized it, but without Sherlock in his life he had begun to pick up on some of the habits of his lost friend. He studied peoples expressions, actions, words and derived truth and meaning from them. More often than not he missed the target, but he had cultivated the practice over the years alone.

Sherlock watched as John bustled around the kitchen. He was... Agitated... Yes but that wasn't it... Was John nervous? He hadn't acted like this around him since they'd first met. Had things really regressed that far? Then John suggested a shower, and he had to admit, the idea of a hot shower was glorious. God knew his hair needed a wash, and he was sure he smelled awful. He nodded his head forward in agreement when John explained that he had left everything of the detectives where it had sat.

Millions of theories as to why zipped through his mind, and he reached out and latched onto the one that kept coming back through. John had always believed he would come back. However there was a deeper sorrow in his eyes, and Sherlock realized that in that hope he had probably been ridiculed not only by the populace for his faith, but by those close to him as well. Sherlock had not been the only one fighting a battle for three years.

His pure faith was staggering and Sherlock found himself inwardly smiling, even though outwardly he displayed nothing. John's eyes were flickering back and forth between his own, searching for a hint to how he would react.

The lack of emotion in Sherlock's expression frustrated John. He had been ridiculed and lost what little social life he had over the fact that he had clung to Sherlocks memory so desperately. At the time, John had begun to believe he was selling himself short, that he was ruining his chances at being happy for a pipe dream.

John's expression was as open and vulnerable as Sherlock felt, and surprising even himself, Sherlock took a step forward to wrap his long arms around his friend in a hug. Initially the action had been meant to sooth John. Sherlock understood it as a social tool, something to use on others, but he'd always wondered the purpose of them. Now, as his arms circled the one person who meant the most to him he began to understand. Warmth spread through his chest where it pressed up against John, and he rested his cheek against the top of John's head, feeling more of that warmth spread across his face. He knew he smelled of cigarettes, dirt, and the rankness of the London Underground, but he couldn't bring himself to pull away when he knew it would have been decent to.

John's breath caught in his chest as Sherlock wrapped his arms around him. It was the last thing he would have expected from Sherlock. The simple touches to the hand were one thing, he had been able to write those off as Sherlocks attempt to display expected affection or appear to be supportive. He had immediately written them off because, well, that wasn't the Sherlock he had grown to know. The Sherlock he knew had hid every ounce of proof that said he was human or felt any sort of emotion. Sentiment was not an endearing trait in Sherlock's mind.

"I know you believed in me when no one else would. Your faith is staggering John, and I should thank you for it."

Obviously the time apart had changed the both of them, as John heard Sherlock's words, he had to stifle another bout of emotions. Hesitating for only a moment, out of sheer shock, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's thin waist, one hand clutched at the material of his coat, as if the action would keep Sherlock from leaving again.

He could feel Sherlock's face pressing against the top of his head and John simply fell apart. It didn't matter that Sherlock smelled of death, or that he was more broken than ever before. With Sherlock's arms wrapped around him John could no longer hold back the powerful turmoil inside his mind, something simply broke. His forehead rested against Sherlock's neckline, his cheek pressed against the dirty collar of his shirt. Soldier that he was, John stood tall as he clutched Sherlock, almost possessively. The only indication that a wall had broken inside of him was a thin line of silent tears making their way down his face.

Sherlock had changed in the time he's been away. He'd come to realize that caring for people was not necessarily a weakness. The words that John had spoken before he'd left to see Mrs. Hudson so long ago had constantly run through his mind as he'd been alone. Friends keep you safe. The grip around his back had startled him at first, the possession was something he had not expected.

No one had ever claimed him, even when he was younger. He'd always just been Sherlock Holmes. Not 'my son' or 'my brother'. That possessive grip on his coat told him that it was John now who was worried he would leave, not the other way around. He had often told himself it was just a matter of time before the man quit putting up with his childish behavior. Now he marvelled at the irony of the reversed situation.

Even with Sherlock holding him, the army doctor stood tall, and he felt it when the man shifted to lay his forehead and cheek against the detectives skin. Then suddenly, there was a wetness there. John was crying. It made him nauseous to think of what he had done to hurt the only person who cared enough to stake a claim in his life.

One hand came up to gently brush over the man's hair attempting to be soothing as his other hand drew small circles on his friends back. The more he touched the John, the more he wondered why he had been so averse to physical contact before. Pushing that thought away to examine later, he held John tighter, willing the man to let go if he needed to or seek more of the silent but broken strength Sherlock was offering.

John was so silent though, it was starting to drive him mad. "I must admit that this reaction is not what I expected. I was under the assumption that hugs made normal people feel better, not spontaneously burst into tears. Perhaps you are in shock, should I get you a blanket?"

He couldn't help the soft chuckle that escaped his lips, but John couldn't respond to Sherlock. He couldn't speak. If he did, he would surely lose any chance he had at remaining as stoic as possible. Shaking his head softly against the taller man's chest he gripped at the fabric in his hands desperately. If he could only will away the painful emotions than he could pull away, they could move on, but he didn't. He allowed the comforting gesture's from Sherlock, basking in them in all honesty, but did not move or reciprocate the motions. He had imagined Sherlock's return too many times, and it was never anything like this. He had imagined Sherlock would be just as snarky as before, that he would simply appear and things would carry on.

"I know it hurts John. Don't hold it in, and don't be quiet. I need to know you're here and not reverting to somewhere in your own mind pushing this all away. I would hate for your limp to worsen because I hugged you and you didn't express everything you needed to." Sherlock may not have been an expert on emotions, but he knew from experience with John's anger that if he didn't get it all out at once, it would build until he would explode viciously. He could only assume that this was another form of anger mixed with grief.

A few minutes after Sherlock spoke, as his face began to dry, John loosened his grip and pulled away from Sherlock slightly. Still standing right infront of him, their bodies just brushing, he looked up at the piercing crystalline eyes. Those hadn't changed. Everything about Sherlock seemed to have changed at this point, but those unnerving eyes had stayed the same.

"You know what frightens me the most? And I mean it tears at my very soul, it scares the bloody day out of me." His voice was shaking and his brows were furrowed deeply. This was the reason he had clung to Sherlock so desperately. This deep rooted fear that had come along with believing in Sherlock Holmes. His voice rose slightly, anger finally ebbing back in, "How will I ever know? How will I ever be able to trust, if something happens to you that, well that it's real? I'll always be waiting." And it was true, now that Sherlock had already come back from the dead once, John would not be able to accept his death easily. He grit his teeth together as his hands balled into listless fists at his sides.

It wasn't that he didn't trust Sherlock, John trusted Sherlock with his life before, and he still did. But then again, it was trust. There was a certain level of trust that had been destroyed that day. John had invested himself in Sherlock, he had been there with him through everything, and if John was completely honest with himself he loved the man. He loved him the way that any man would love his best friend or flatmate and Sherlock had broke him. He had taken that bond and used it against him. Now whether the whole act was for his safety or not, it didn't change the psychological toll it had taken on John.

John's words were like fire hot pokers through his skin. They burned through Sherlock, spreading anger and hatred with himself and the now dead Moriarty like a wildfire. His eyes narrowed, and his jaw set as John looked up at him, eyes so vivid in their pain that Sherlock could practically feel it. He had only ever known what it was like to be afraid twice in his life, and neither time had been pleasant. So he could on some small scale imagine the feelings coursing through the doctor's body, but in the same respect, he had no idea.

Sherlock's fingers squeezed into fists at his side as he realized this was something he would never be able to fix. This is what happened when you cared about people. They inevitably betray you, and things are never the same. He wanted to take it away. He was used to the dismal feelings of his own past and mind, he could handle it. But to see John, the man who was always happy or mildly annoyed so broken was more than he could bear.

"That day destroyed me. I can't go through that again, I just can't." John was almost yelling now, but at the last word his voice broke. His head fell and he finally broke down, silent sobs racking his body as he pressed the palms of his hands to his eyes, willing his body to stop betraying him.

Sherlock had always thought grown men crying was just downright immature and foolish, but watching his blogger, his best friend deteriorate under the pressure was excruciatingly painful in a way Sherlock hadn't experienced before. His chest was tight, and his palms were starting to bleed weakly from where his jagged nails cut into his hands. Sherlock wanted to scream and kick and throw things just to make it go away, wanted to revert to his childish nature, but he knew that wouldn't make things any better, and for once, he squashed that need to destroy down inside of himself. He was so angry, so effected by the other's words that he had to leave the room, had to be alone. He couldn't take the fact that he had ruined the one and only thing he'd ever had going for him, by trying to protect it. What justice was there in the world?

Taking a small step closer, his body lined up with John's, one more silent reminder that he was indeed here before placing gentle hands on the others wrists to pull them away. He wanted to see it, wanted to burn the image of John's tear stained face into the wall at the top of the stairs in John's wing of his mind palace, so that he would have to see it every time he retrieved some information on him. A reminder always of what could happen if he wasn't careful. For all his snarky words, for all his brutally honest deductions, he had never intentionally hurt someone. And while this pain John was feeling was not intentional, it was still his fault.

He held the man's wrists away from his face and leaned down a little, making sure there was no way what he was about to say would be misheard. Their noses almost touched, and his eyes flickered back and forth between John's to gauge his reaction.

"The truth is John? You can't. You can't ever know." His whisper was quiet, but strong in the silence of 221B. His lips twitched with some unknown emotion, and out of frustration he released the smaller man's hands with a little more force than necessary.

Turning on his heel, he headed to his room first where he picked up fresh clothes, and then to the bathroom to take his shower. After closing the door, he set his clothes on the closed seat of the toilet and turned on the hot water for the shower. Removing his clothes as the steam filled up the bathroom, he surveyed every scar he'd obtained in the past three years defending the very thing he'd effectively lost today. John. They were still friends if you could call it that, but he had lost all trust in the detective, and what was a friendship truly without trust?

One long thin scar ran the length of his spine, just to the right of the dip between the muscles of his back. Another, wider and bright pink against his pale skin ran along the lines of his ribs, curling from his upper back down to his navel. Other smaller ones littered his body and he frowned down at his arm as he pulled the self adhesive bandage away from the wound.

Four long gouges had left yellowed pus stains on the gauze pad that had been pressed up against the wounds. He winced, infection must have set in from the bacteria when he'd been wounded. He hadn't had the time to clean it, and he was paying for it now.

Placing his hands on the cabinet, he glared at his reflection. In his mind he carried on a rant at himself, tearing down his walls and rubbing salt in the fresh wounds his interaction with John had left behind. With an angry jerk, he picked his trousers up from where he'd dropped them to the floor and pulled an orange pill bottle from the pocket. Vicodin. Screwing off the lid he poured three tablets into his hand, and rolled them over for a long time, weighing the consequences before finally popping them into his mouth and swallowing. Three... that was half what he normally took. It was a step in the right direction, and with the events of the evening so far, he could really use the heady feeling he knew the Vicodin could provide.

Sherlock stepped into the shower and let the hot water run over his tired muscles, washing off dirt and grime from traveling, and finally turned, letting the water soak into his hair. Once the curls hung limp in his face, he smoothed them back with both hands and let the hot water run over his face.

Then it all hit him, like a ton of bricks, and he slowly sank in the stream of water, letting it run over him as he sat motionless on the floor of the shower. John would never trust him again, and if he did it would take a long time to get back to the easy comfort they'd had before. He was even still using drugs when he'd asked John to help him stop. The irony of it made him run his spidery hands through his wet locks, tugging at them in frustration. He was too weak to fight his impulses, just like he had been too weak to fight Moriarty. His shoulders shook with tension as his fists tightened in his hair, pulling painfully at his scalp as if to remind him that this wasn't just a nightmare. Although he had made it out of their reunion relatively unscathed, he had lost so much more than he had anticipated. A sinking feeling ripped through his gut as the thought entered his mind and spread like a poison.

**Had hiding from everyone, including John, done more harm than good?**


	4. I Will Steal You Back

"You can't ever know."

The words echoed through John's mind as Sherlock stalked off and he thought of the blind faith he had put in Sherlock all those years ago. He wondered if he could find that again.

John had seen the anger building in Sherlock's eyes as he spoke, and he couldn't be sure where that was directed honestly. Had he crossed a line, said too much? Or was Sherlock angry with himself? Just as John's gaze had dropped he saw Sherlock's fists clenching, and there he was, Captain John Watson, standing in front of Sherlock Holmes, crying like a child. He felt foolish, betrayed, overwhelmed and relieved all at once. The hope that Sherlock would return had always been accompanied with the fear that he would leave again, so there was a sort of cathartic release in finally telling Sherlock that.

It took John a moment to remember that the detective had been planning to take a shower in the first place. That was what John had told him to do after all. He stood there frozen to the spot, listening to Sherlock rummage through his bedroom, go back across the hall, and into the bathroom. It wasn't until he heard the water running that he finally moved.

Leaning heavily on the counter his fingers splayed across the cool tiles, gripping at them, trying to hold on to reality. He stood there for a few minutes, his mind so crowded and confused he couldn't even think straight. Finally he decided that he might as well follow through with the promised meal, god knew Sherlock needed it. Listlessly John begun tearing through the fridge, looking for something, anything Sherlock would eat. It was as if his mind had gone blank. Sherlock never really ate in the first place, and John hadn't been eating much as of late, so the kitchen was rather barren. Slightly calmed now that he had had a moment to center himself John moved to the bathroom.

He could hear the shower running, but he rapped on the door all the same. "Sherlock," He called, trying to keep his voice as even and normal as possible. "How's take away sound?" He hesitated for a moment, "The chinese place is still open." The words sounded feeble and empty as he said them, but it was the most normal thing he could come up with. The only way he could say to Sherlock, Yes we are broken, and I don't know what is going to happen, but let's have dinner.

Sherlock wasn't sure how long he'd been in the shower when John knocked on the door, but the water was still warm so it couldn't been too long. His head was starting to go fuzzy from the pain pills, and the steam helped produce that lighter than air feeling in his mind he had been looking for. John was asking him a question, and he knew he needed to answer. The words, 'I'm not hungry' started to leave his mouth, but he remembered that he had told John he would attempt to eat. Wiping a hand over his face, he smoothed his hair out of his eyes again and cleared his throat before answering.

"Take away is fine John..." he called, "Don't order a full entree for me, I don't want to have an excess of leftovers..." He stood then, feeling less erratic than he had earlier, and finished washing himself before turning the shower off and giving his body a quick dry with a towel. He left the cloth over his head as he dressed, pulling on a clean pair of trousers and his favorite purple button down shirt. He realized then how much weight he had really lost. The trousers were slung low on his hips, loose, but not to the point that they would fall off, and his shirt that had been so perfectly taught against his chest before now hung off his frame, almost a full size too big. He sighed and tousled his hair with the towel until it was mildly damp before letting himself out of the bathroom.

He was trying to decide whether to do up the top button or not, when he sat down on the couch, laying his head at the end closest to the door, and propping his bare feet up on the other end. He decided to leave it open to let the cool air caress his damp chest, attempting to clear the foggy feeling from his mind.

It took awhile for John to locate the takeaway menu, it had been stuffed in the back of a junk drawer in the kitchen. He tried to remember if he had actually used the menu since Sherlock had been gone. He hadn't. It was a miracle the menu was still there, but John had been very careful to change as little as possible, just in case.

After placing their regular order, disregarding Sherlock's distaste for leftovers, John moved around the kitchen trying to keep busy as he heard Sherlock moving about the flat. It wasn't that he didn't want to face him, or talk to him. In fact it was just about all he wanted to do, but he didn't know what to say or how to act. So instead he bustled around the kitchen, clearing their tea cups from the floor, along with the one he'd spilled earlier, and busying himself with dishes that were actually already clean. After he saw Sherlock make his way to the sitting room, sprawling out the small sofa, John moved to his own small armchair. Picking up the novel where he'd dropped it on the floor, he stared at the words, not even attempting to read.

Sherlock had watched as John moved about the flat, neither of them knowing what to say, but both needing to say something. However, instead of trying to decide what nonsense to spout, they slipped into a comfortable silence and the detective began to think, pulling his reaction to the act of comfort he had extended to John back to the forefront of his mind. He wasn't sure why this simple action had been so comforting, but if that was how everyone felt when hugging he wasn't surprised that he saw people doing it so often.

The contact had offered the closest thing to silence he'd ever felt within his own mind, and apparently it had released something in the doctor as well. However, he wasn't sure if it was merely an effect of the moment, or if it would be a constant. If it did prove to work as a silencer for his mind, Sherlock could imagine many times that would come in handy for the both of them. Sure he touched people for the work, but always on his terms. Having someone clutch to him so desperately would have caused immediate abortion of the contact before, but for some reason, he didn't feel suffocated or nervous at John's touch. The detective only felt needed and comfortable, things he'd never really felt. It wasn't often Sherlock didn't understand something, and it frustrated him to no end. Still, the question remained why was it that John was the one that had finally been able to fully touch him without total revulsion?

Sherlock decided quickly that it must be the reason everything else was different with the man. He just wasn't like normal people. Sure he was just as much of an idiot, just as ignorant as them, but something in his character called out to the parts of Sherlock that were less than normal. Feeling that an experiment might be a good way to break the whisper of tension between them, he decided to close the distance. However, he was comfortable and didn't want to move, which meant he'd have to entice the other man to come to his side.

When Sherlock finally broke the silence his voice was much calmer than it had been all night. He peeked up at the other man for a moment before clearing his throat. "John will you come here for a moment?" he asked softly.

Slowly setting his book down John stood and limped over to the side of the couch where Sherlock's head lay. John cocked his head to the side, wordlessly asking what Sherlock needed or wanted. He couldn't help but notice the detective seemed so much smaller than before, the familiar shirt now hung loosely against him. All the same the shower had done him good, he looked more himself.

Sherlock turned over on his side, back resting against the cushions at the rear of the couch, creating a pocket of space with his chest and knees. "Give me your hand." It wasn't a question, and when the doctor responded, he noticed the tremor had returned to his left hand. Sherlock's brows knit together as he reached up and stilled the smaller man's hand. He felt his throat tighten, and rather than examine the feeling, he tugged on John, pulling him down on the couch in that space, and curled his knees and arms around him. A curly head rested against a strong thigh, fingers idle against his right side where they clasped together to keep the man in their grasp. The moment he settled, the raging whirlwind of thoughts in his head seemed to fade into nothingness. He breathed a sigh of relief, and all his muscles seemed to relax at once. So touching John did make the world quiet. He'd have to exploit that as much as John allowed. He was aware that this was uncommon for two men, and John's constant 'straight' campaign would be a hinderance, but he would make John see his side.

It wasn't what John had been expecting in the least, he had known what Sherlock was looking for when he asked for his hand. The tremor wasn't something he was proud of, like his limp it reminded him, and everyone else, just how broken he was. It was not surprising that Sherlock had asked for his hand, but he had still held his breath as the long fingers stilled his own. So when he was pulled down into the taller man he let out a surprised huff of breath. At first he was shocked, but he quickly realized that he didn't want to move, afraid that doing so would break whatever spell was holding them in this moment.

Finally after a long while of sitting that way Sherlock spoke, his voice was whisper quiet in the stillness. "I'm not really sure when this changed John. I know it's odd, and I don't really know if it's good or bad, but I don't want to be alone. " His nose buried against the other man's thigh as he continued, "Touching you seems to calm the torrent in my mind, and it seems to put both of us at ease. Let me stay like this for a while. Do you mind?"

Sherlock's head was pounding from the drugs, and he refused to plead John, but now that he was aware this calm was possible, he was hard pressed to let it go. Something in John's nearness made the nightmares that managed to plague him even in his waking hours disappear. His eyes felt heavy as he breathed in the warm scent of the doctor. Tea, books, and something uniquely John.

The fact that John was also so entranced by Sherlock's touch was news to him, and it sent a chill down his spine to hear Sherlock tell him exactly what they needed. His mind raced as he tried to decipher his own motives. It was reassuring, that was without a doubt. It grounded him, knowing that Sherlock was still present, that he hadn't yet disappeared from the world again. So, when Sherlock asked if John minded if they stayed how they were he shook his head softly and muttered, "No, of course not."

The odd embrace made John think of how desperately he had clung to Sherlock, less than an hour before. They really did both need this.

It took awhile for John to really relax, and push his own worries and confusion from his mind, but in time he did, and as he heard Sherlock's breathing slow he wriggled slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position for the both of them. It didn't seem that Sherlock planned on letting him go and John could see him drifting off to sleep. It was just as well they stayed close, John thought, trying to excuse their behavior in his mind. There were very few nights that John was left unaffected by nightmares. Maybe the subconscious reminder that Sherlock was present would help.

Sherlock could practically hear John thinking. He'd long ago figured out that different people thought with different sounds. More often than not, John's sounded like a speeding train to his ears. When he thought, he thought hard and fast, often missing the small things in favor of getting to his destination. When the wriggling started, Sherlock lazily opened his eyes and sat up on one elbow, curly hair askew.

"Uncomfortable?" he asked, for once stating the obvious, "We can move if you like. I'm not really sure how else we can fit together on the couch..." He turned his head, looking around and theorizing, "Unless you want to lay down with me. I think there's enough room that way..." his eyes rose to John's, the question in his eyes interrupted when the buzzer downstairs went off.

Closing his eyes in frustration, he turned his head towards the door. "That'll be the take-away?" he deducted. Sighing, he curled up against John again, but clinging less so that the man could get up, "You'd better get the door then." Some things hadn't changed at all.

John's mouth had opened wordlessly, unsure how to respond to Sherlocks offer. When he had begun to adjust himself he had planned to try and get some sort of rest, but when Sherlock laid it out so plain like that it caught John off guard. Hadn't he been considering just that option? But when Sherlock offered it, John felt like it might mean something more, and that frightened him. Luckily John was saved from answering, he had almost forgotten about the take away order until he heard the buzzer. Still, John hesitated for a moment, not wanting to break the contact just yet. It took no time for the impatient deliverer to hold down the buzzer again, longer this time. John pulled himself from the couch with a groan.

John hurried down stairs to pay for their meal while Sherlock considered the initial response he'd observed from his offer. It had appeared to frighten John, but why?

When John walked back into the room the detectives eyes were closed, obviously deep in thought. Not wanting to bother with dishes John sat down against the foot of the sofa pulling out one of the to go containers. It was something he vaguely remembered Sherlock being willing to eat in the past. The younger man's deep thought was interrupted by John handing over the entire container, with a plastic fork from the bag, he offered Sherlock a small smile. The first real smile since the detective had showed up earlier that night.

"Eat up," John quipped, almost playfully.

Sitting up, Sherlock took the container and opened it with a frown. He really didn't want to eat, but the disappointment he knew he would see on the doctor's face made him think better of voicing that opinion. He forked some of the food, and took a bite. It was actually good. Another bite quickly became another until about half of the food was gone. His stomach felt full and happy for once, but he knew he should have taken it slower. Setting the food down on the table, he reclined back on the sofa once more, his mind taking off to figure out his earlier quandary .

John was pleasantly surprised at how much Sherlock managed to eat without complaining. When the younger man set down the food John turned, again trying to think of something to say, but seeing Sherlock's eyes closed, his mind obviously busy, John turned back to his own food. He had learned a long time ago that when the detective was in his 'mind palace' it was best to leave him alone. He wouldn't hear him anyways.

A few moments later Sherlock's eyes flew open, his mouth forming a silent 'oh' as it hit him, and he propped his head up on one hand looking down at John who was such a slow eater he had barely made a dent in his food.

"My earlier offer... I had no ulterior motive. I meant what I said. My thoughts and body are very chaotic and erratic, and you are my best friend John, my only friend. There were times I thought I'd never see you again. I haven't done much more than sustain myself, god knows the last time I slept, and nightmares plague me even when I avoid sleeping. But, somehow when I'm touching you or close to you, all of that fades. I feel like I can rest..." He sighed deeply and pressed onward, "Your silly notions of what is and isn't appropriate for two men to do has no bearing in our flat. It is our business what happens here, no one elses, and if it's comforting, why not partake? Who will see you here besides possibly Mycroft? And who is he going to tell if he does? His cohorts at the Diogenese Club?" Sherlock snorted.

"I don't want to make you uncomfortable John, but I know it relaxes you too. And I understand that this is all so sudden and confusing, my returning to you, but the past three years have been nothing but running and doing for others... I'd like to have a moment to just take what I want and need..." His voice was even, but his eyes were piercing, deducting every minute reaction John would have.

The food wasn't terrible, but John hadn't been starving to begin, so he had been picking at the bits of orange chicken slowly. When Sherlock spoke his fork was halfway to his mouth, and it stayed there throughout the entirety of his speech.

John was sure he was not helping Sherlock any with the expression he gave. As Sherlock spoke the fear returned, for a moment, before confusion overtook his features. Slowly John lowered the fork back to the take away box and set the box on the floor next to Sherlock's. He averted his eyes so he couldn't see the piercing stare tearing him apart. Focusing on the words that had been said John shook his head slightly, still not raising himself to meet Sherlock's gaze.

"Sherlock," John started, his voice did not hold half the strength or stability that Sherlock's had as he spoke. "We can't. I mean, yeah, it is calming. It's just a bit. . ." John didn't want to say not good. It wasn't that it was bad, it just wasn't what two blokes were supposed to do to comfort each other, right? Then why did John want to say yes? Turning so he was facing Sherlock he continued, "We just can't." His tone dripped with finality, but his brows were pinched by his internal confusion.

Sherlock sighed. He could tell there was confusion storming over John's brows, and he could see the conflict of emotions within his eyes before the other had turned away. Presumably to hide all that he was feeling from the knowing detective. In a fit of frustration, he let his hand slip out from under his head, causing his face to hit the cushion with a soft thump. This action caused his head to spin with the effects of the pills he had taken earlier. It seemed like eating had spurred the heady feeling on faster. His fingers gripped the couch tightly as he reigned in his thoughts enough to speak once John had stopped.

"It's only a question," his voice was muffled by the couch pillow he'd refused to pull his face from, "You can say no, simply saying we can't is a false statement. We can, there is nothing keeping us from it. However if the suggestion is so repulsive to you, a simple 'no' will suffice. Contrary to popular belief, I can not read minds, and though it's very rare, my deductions can be wrong. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable." He turned his head to face away from John, situating his body so that he was laying on his stomach. He didn't want the other to see any reactions he might be having to the loopy high he was beginning to feel. "After all, I've always been a selfish sod, I should learn not to be, or so Mycroft tells me." He shrugged his shoulders as a dark curl fell into his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to curl up against the warmth of the other man, perhaps drift off into a much needed sleep, but that was not likely to happen. Another sigh felt like it rattled his bones.

"How is your food?" he asked, trying to change the subject.

Something wasn't quite right, but John couldn't decide if it was simply the fact that Sherlock was worn and exhausted or if there was something else going on. He could see Sherlock digging into the couch tightly, his knuckles flushed as he gripped at the fabric. Maybe John should have been able to see the signs, but he had no idea how bad Sherlock really was to begin with, so it was difficult for him to understand what was happening now.

Even as Sherlock turned away in a huff, John didn't move. He just sat, on the floor no less, listening to the younger mans rant.

"Since when do you care what Mycroft says?" John answered quickly, pushing the topic of their food aside by cleaning up the remnants of their dinner.

Sherlock knew he was being unreasonable, but the man had admitted it was odd and didn't that mean he didn't want to? The drugs were befuddling his mind now, which was strange in itself because they normally enhanced his ability to narrow in on minute details.

Turning back to look at John, he was grateful that his cool wet curls fell over his hot forehead. "When he started making sense..." He murmured, "which I suppose was always, so I guess it's more I'm seeing his side of things now. Stupid pra-" Sherlock's sentence cut off in a pained groan as he curled up tight on the couch gripping his stomach. Another intense stab of pain shot through him again and he cried out as every fibre of his being felt like it was being torn apart.

"Sherlock what's hurting?" John's voice was slightly panicked, but the doctor in him quickly took over. Trying to figure out if it had been the food or something else. At this point John realized he hadn't even asked what exactly Sherlock had gotten into during his hiatus. What damage had he done to his body?

A wave of nausea rolled through the detective and he stumble to his feet, knocking into things as he tried to walk, the room spinning around him. One shoulder hit the hallway wall hard and he grunted in pain as another shockwave cramped his abdomen. He finally made it to the bathroom door and fell on his hands and knees, crawling until he reached the toilet. Just in time he pulled his head over the edge as his stomach tried to purge itself of whatever was causing this pain.

After his first initial heave, he moved back to pull the seat up before another wave caused his entire body to tense. Closing his eyes, he tried to ride each heave as smoothly as possible. His throat burned and he felt like a fire had raged through his nostrils as the bile and stomach acid burned the tender flesh.

There wasn't much to rid himself of, but the last heave produced two of the three half dissolved pills. Sherlock knew if John saw them he would be angry but he was shaking both from the sudden chill that had swept over his body and from the force of the spasms that had caused every one of his muscles to tense. His stomach lurched again, but there was nothing left for it to reject.

John barely had a chance to stumble to his feet as Sherlock rolled from the couch. It didn't appear Sherlock could hear him through the pain. He moved at a surprisingly fast pace, down the hall, knocking over a lamp which John had to dodge and fix before following him into the bathroom. John grimaced slightly as he heard Sherlock's retching, but he dropped to his friends side, smoothing his hair off his hot forehead.

"Shh. Relax." John cooed, their previous conversation quickly forgotten. As Sherlock continued to heave John scrambled to his feet, finding a flannel he soaked it at the sink before returning to Sherlock's side to drape the cool cloth over the back of his neck. As he fell to his knees beside Sherlock he caught sight of what looked like pills in the midst of the sick.

Pressing the cloth to Sherlock's hot skin John cursed under his breath, shaking his head as he attempted to support the broken man. He was shaking hard, and didn't seem to be fully aware that John had one arm wrapped around his back, unconsciously mimicking Sherlock actions from earlier as he rubbed small circles into his shaking frame.

"Jesus, Sherlock." His voice was tired and exasperated, but not quite angry, at least for the moment. "What have you done?" John's head dropped to the top of Sherlock's shoulder as he sat, waiting for the tremors to ride out and for Sherlock to find his way back to reality.


	5. I'm Not Okay

"Jesus, Sherlock." His voice was tired and exasperated, but not quite angry. "What have you done?" John's head dropped to the top of Sherlock's shoulder as he sat, waiting for the tremors to ride out and for Sherlock to find his way back to reality.

The detective felt soaked with sweat when the dry heaves finally subsided. A curly head lifted and allowed him to cross an arm over the open mouth of the porcelain bowl before dropping back down to rest on his forearm.

He was now painfully aware of John's forehead on his shoulder, and his mind replayed the other's question. He chose to ignore it for the time being, assuming it was rhetorical anyway. Warm hands were rubbing soothing circles on his back, and now that he was aware, his body cringed a little when John's hand touched the still sore pink scar that sliced across his back and side.

When a portion of his strength returned from the nethers it had disappeared to, a slender hand pulled the rag off the back of his neck and wiped his face and nose before flushing away the evidence of his transgression. Pulling away from the toilet, he leaned back on his heels and let his head fall to the side, towards John as he tossed the rag into the bathtub. He was breathing hard, and his chest rose and fell weakly with each pained lung full of air.

"No more take-away for me thanks..." He said half jokingly as he closed his eyes. He was so exhausted he felt like he could go to sleep right here, raw sinuses and all. He ran a sleeve across his brow to keep from feeling like he was drowning in sweat, and his stomach muscles felt sore from the extreme spasms they'd been forced into.

When he finally opened his eyes again, he chanced a look up at the doctor, and ended up meeting his gaze. He was sure he looked like a kicked puppy begging its master not to be cross, and to be completely honest, that's how he felt as well.

There was very little remorse for Sherlocks predicament in John's eyes when the younger man finally raised his head. For a moment he didn't say or do anything, the hand on Sherlock's lower back stilled but didn't move away. After what seemed like ages John leant Sherlock back against the wall of the small bathroom and stood to leave without any explanation, pausing for only a moment in the doorway to give a short order.

"Don't move."

He hurried to Sherlock's room, a room he hadn't entered in two years. Even now, knowing Sherlock was alive, John felt a shiver creep down his spine as he pushed open the door. It was irrational obviously, but it pained him to be back in this room. He supposed it was due to the many sleepless nights he had spent memorizing every detail of it, hoping he would derive some understanding as to what had happened.

Shaking his head, as if to shake off the painful memories, John went to the dresser and found a pair of flannel pants and a white t-shirt. Grabbing the familiar blue robe from atop the bed post he returned to the bathroom.

Sherlock grimaced and solidly banged his head against the wall after John left him there in the bathroom. He stupidly felt like apologizing, but that wouldn't get him any sympathy from his flat mate. Not that he wanted sympathy, he just didn't want him to be mad. He lifted a shaking hand to his face and rubbed it over his nose and mouth. Things between them were already delicate, and this was not helping to reaffirm John that Sherlock was still a good investment in his life. The detective was painfully aware of how close they were to 'too much' for the older man.

He had no idea what John had left him to do, and he couldn't hear him. A small seed of panic began to manifest in his mind as the thought that the other might have left shocked him practically sober. He sat up straighter and strained his ears to listen and there. There was the tell tale limp and the doctor was coming back to the bathroom. His relief was short lived when the doctor returned tight lipped and obviously very cross, but keeping it under a thin veil of control. John kneeled next to Sherlock as he finally spoke.

"What did you take?" That was what was important right now. What did he take? Would he be okay? John would save being angry at him for a time when he would actually remember it. He held onto the fresh clothing, waiting for an answer.

Rather than answering and betraying the waver he knew would be in his voice he slid a slender hand into his pocket and retrieved the pill bottle. It was a prescription made out for him of a very high dosage of Vicodin, the kind they gave out after surgeries or for severe bone injuries. He relinquished it without hesitation and folded his hands in his lap. He'd done much worse, and he'd had much worse reactions in the past. If John knew he wouldn't be making such a big deal now, would he?

Sherlock pulled his knees to his chest and hid his eyes from the light with one hand, leaning his hand back against the wall. They were sensitive, and he had a headache. Now he felt like a small child, and all he wanted to do was curl up and disappear from John's gaze. Would it always be like this? Would he feel like this any time he wasn't strong enough to shake his addiction?

Leaving the clothes in a heap John took the bottle, flipping it over in his hand to read the label. He popped the top and in one fluid motion he stood, pouring the remaining pills into the toilet and then tossed the empty bottle into the trashcan with a little more force than necessary, causing the can to shake slightly. John stayed standing away from Sherlock as he ran his hand through his hair, trying to keep a reign on the anger that was inevitably building.

John let his hands fall, causing his shoulders to slump slightly, before turning to face Sherlock again. It was a pathetic sight, seeing his once rather pompous friend so shattered. As John gazed down at the detective his features softened slightly. He was still angry, there was no denying that, but Sherlock had come for help. The drug use hadn't been a secret in any way. Letting out a heavy sigh John knelt down to Sherlock's level.

"I need to know everything you've done to yourself. Unless you plan on going to the surgery and getting another doctor that is," He smirked knowingly at that, he knew Sherlock would not go to see another doctor unless John said he couldn't handle the problem, and even then Sherlock would still insist it could be dealt with at home. "But that can wait a bit. Can you stand? You need to change out of this." John pulled at the damp cloth, he didn't understand why Sherlock got dressed anyhow. It wasn't like they had any where to go.

Sherlock nodded, feeling like a chastised child even if John hadn't said much about it. He considered taking the clothes back to his room to change, it was far too early for John to see his scars, but something in the doctor's tone had said he wasn't going to stand for Sherlock being alone quite yet. Sherlock shot him a glare, that didn't quite hold the venom he'd hoped for.

"Mind giving me some privacy?" John shook his head, exasperated, but went to stand outside the bathroom, not in the mood to argue with Sherlock even if he was half drugged.

Stronger now, Sherlock stood and started unbuttoning his sopping wet shirt. He let it slide off his torso before sifting through the pile of clothes and slipping on the t-shirt John had been brought. It was infuriating that John couldn't even trust him to dress himself, but it was his own doing wasn't it?

When he'd finished dressing he turned around and retrieved his clothes before shakily taking them to his room and tossing them in the hamper with the clothes he'd been wearing when he returned earlier that day. When he returned to the sitting room, John on his heels, having hounded him the entire way. He sat on the couch, pulling his feet up in the seat and draping his arms around his legs, resting his chin on his knees. He knew John was going to drill him now. He was partially glad, because he didn't even know where to begin.

Dropping into the couch next to Sherlock John kept his attention on his own hands, which were clasped in his lap. He knew that the other man was waiting for him to speak, to do something, but John was having a difficult time deciding what issue was more pressing; what he had taken today, or what he had taken over the past three years.

Deciding that he needed to make sure that Sherlock was coherent enough to actually divulge whatever other self harm he had done John settled on the first problem.

"So," John started, turning his attention to the lanky man wrapped up in himself. "I know the food didn't sit well, but how much vicodin did you take? And when exactly did you take it? Before you got here?" He tried to keep his tone as neutral as possible, which wasn't easy, a hint of irritation was surely audible. That was the difficulty in being both the friend and doctor of Sherlock Holmes, trying to keep his emotions separate from the problem, and right now John was furious that even while asking for help Sherlock couldn't seem to keep himself sober.

He didn't want to answer. He knew he was only going to dig himself into a hole, but he also knew not answering would make him upset as well. He didn't raise his head, didn't look at John, just answered as mechanically as John had asked the question, by avoiding it. "I've mostly done opiates through the morning." he said softly, "I haven't done anything harder than that in a few days..."

Sherlock's fingers tapped against the side of his legs to a rhythm only he could understand. He hated how awkward and clinical this already was, and how much worse it was going to get. But he has asked for help, and he knew it was going to be a long road. He didn't want to be the addict he'd been all his life. He wanted to be better than that.

Frustrated, John let out a guttural sound, almost a growl. "No, Sherlock. What you just lost in the toilet with half a box of take away. When did you take those and how many did you take? I need to know how coherent you are at the moment." He hadn't meant to lose his composure, but he had none the less.

The incessant drumming flowing from Sherlock's fingertips was somewhat worrisome in the fact that it assured just how far he had fallen, just how addicted he was. John chewed at the inside of his lip, hard enough that he could taste a tinge of blood on his tongue. He was torn between hating Sherlock for doing this to himself, and his desire to simply make it all go away. To take this mans pain and will it out of his body somehow. John couldn't help but wonder what he had been forced to do over the past three years that had led to this.

"Three John... I took three before I got in the shower..." He closed his eyes against his words. Stress was high, and he knew they were both being a little short with each other, but neither could really blame the other. When he spoke, his words were contained, but irritated, his voice coming out around obviously grit teeth. "I am competent enough, can you please get on with your inquisition?" He turned his face away, no longer sure he could leave his face open for observation of his expressions.

"Dammit Sherlock," John sighed heavily at the word inquisition. "I'm not trying to attack you." Exhausted and emotionally spent his head rolled back against the couch. Closing his eyes he continued speaking, his voice considerably more affable "I need to know what all you've done, any," he paused for a moment, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth as he tried to think of a pleasant way to ask the question, "anything that may have been detrimental to your body. We need to get you healthy Sherlock."

"Yes..." he steeled himself, and looking up he let his eyes bore into John's. He wanted Sherlock to talk? He would talk, and he would make the doctor sorry he pushed. He had grown extremely angry at John's loss of temper, and now it was his turn. He knew he was thinking irrationally, but he was tired, and grumpy, and more than a little hurt, both physically and emotionally.

"You want to know what kind of drugs I've done in the last three years John? Yes. I've done all of them at one time or another. I've gone months without eating much at all, I've lost count of how many nights I've gone without sleep." as he spoke, he took on a similar anger and tone like he had back in Dublin after seeing the 'hound' in the hollow. "Have you ever been addicted to something John? Have you ever had this burning need deep in your gut demanding that you have more of whatever it is? Getting over an addiction is like trying to teach yourself how to stop breathing. Because when you stop, you remember all the reasons you started taking them in the first place. So forgive me if I can't just drop it all right NOW." He was getting angrier the longer he spoke, and with a growl he stood and began pacing,although he did not stray far from the couch.

John cringed, the anger in his voice was venomous, but kept still and quiet throughout the rant. It was like a twisted form of a deduction, the angry, bitter words spilled from his mouth almost as fast as Sherlock's mind produced them.

"I come back to find you broken John. I come back and I find you broken and hurting, and I am the cause... if you knew... if you had an inkling of what has happened. What I've done... what I've given up and lost... " He had been gesturing wildly with his hands, and now they fell limply at his sides.

"You have every right to be angry, you have every right to tell me to do this on my own, and you're not, and I appreciate that more than you will ever know, but I am going to have to ask you to be patient with me... Please John..."

.

By the end John had brought one hand up to his face, his fingers pulling at his lips in anguish. Broken, hurting. He was, but that didn't mean he knew it was so obvious. As Sherlock finished speaking he nodded mutely, his hand finally moving to tear through the short blond hair. "I'll. . Yeah." John nodded again, finding full use of his vocabulary after a moment, "I'll do my best Sherlock. I'm sorry for pushing you, just sit down."

Sherlock had expected John to yell back, but he didn't. Almost as if he didn't know what else to do, he moved towards the couch, and dropped down next to the doctor. He didn't stop there though, and let gravity pull him sideways, dropping his head onto John's shoulder.

"I'm sorry.. I shouldn't have yelled. And it wasn't fair of me to say that...I'm just.. angry at myself..." Sherlock's fingers began tapping on his leg again as he leaned on the doctor's shoulder. The touch felt warm and spread through his chest, sapping the anger right out of him.

When he felt Sherlock lean into him John was only mildly surprised. In fact the physical reminder that his friend was really back, that this wasn't some sick nightmare, calmed John significantly and after a moment he adjusted so he was sitting a bit taller to accommodate for their height difference before leaning his own cheek against the still damp curls.

"I know. It's okay," he muttered softly, watching Sherlock's fingers twitching against his leg. A painful reminder that John hoped would fade quickly.

"Sherlock?" John shifted as he caught sight of the underside of the arm that had been bandaged earlier. He had sat up and carefully pushed up the loose sleeve of the Sherlock's gown, revealing the deep, obviously infected, gashes. "Dammit Sherlock..." His voice was much softer than before, almost pained by what he was seeing. Without waiting for a response he stood, his hand slipping to gingerly grasp his friends wrist, hauling him off to the bathroom.

"You can explain while I clean it." He stated, his voice terse, but not quite fueled by anger as it had been.

The detective stumbled to his feet and followed John mutely. He was pressed down to sit on the toilet, and Sherlock decided if he never had to spend another moment in this bathroom it would be too soon. Fighting back at this point would be unproductive, so he sat obediently on the toilet and pulled up the sleeve of his robe.

"I got in a fight." He didn't care to elaborate much more, "I got scratched, didn't have time to care for it." The detective shrugged noncommittally as if it wasn't a big deal.

"A scratch?" John scoffed as a pulled a medical bag out from under the sink. Setting it on the counter he rummaged around until he found everything he would need. Unfortunately he'd have to scrub out the infection before he rebandaged the arm, something he was sure Sherlock was going to resent him for.

"Lay your arm over the sink." John started, and when Sherlock obliged he continued, running warm water over the wound as he spoke. "You've been following me for days Sherlock. I'm sure you could have managed to stop for a moment."

"The infection had already set in at that point, and I didn't have the proper implements to properly clean it. So I changed the bandages thrice a day. I couldn't do much more. Could you quit lecturing me? I think I've got the point by the pain in my arm. You're sure to be inflicting more whilst cleaning it. That's punishment enough wouldn't you say?" his tone was clipped in frustration. He wasn't really mad at John, but he was tired of being reprimanded at every turn.

John shook his head and began scrubbing the wound, trying to put just enough pressure to clean away the most of the infection without causing any undue pain. "You're lucky I have some antibiotic samples or we'd have to make a trip to A&E. You could have gone septic." Then realizing he was beginning to lecture Sherlock again he moved on. "Is there anything else I should check for you?" He couldn't help but wonder what Sherlock had been through while he was away, how this had happened.

"No." The detective's answer was simple as he cringed against the pain shooting up his arm from John's scrubbing, "After this.. I think I'd like to get some sleep." he said softly.

Sleep. John desperately needed to sleep. He was physically, mentally, and emotionally drained, but given their previous conversation, before Sherlock had gotten sick, the statement had a double meaning. Once he had finished cleaning out the wound and dried it with a towel he turned back to Sherlock, and in a barely audible tone he whispered, "Yeah, we both need the rest."

Sherlock's eyes slipped closed as he spoke, "You're thinking about what I asked you earlier... as I said, I don't wish to make you uncomfortable." However, even as he spoke, he couldn't bare to pull away from the doctor now. John had medicated the wound and was gently wrapping his arm in fresh bandage. No wonder normal people slept so much, emotions were exhausting. Heaping that on top of the rest of what had happened today, and his weariness from the past three years, Sherlock felt like a dead man walking.

"It would be a lie for me to say that I didn't sorely want it though." The arm John wasn't cleaning, snaked up his broad back and gripped at his shirt, a definite difference from his earlier grumpy notions. A warm glow began to descend over Sherlock then, the touch dominating his thoughts and sending the rest of his swirling consciousness fluttering in the breeze.

If John was honest with himself, he wanted it too. He felt ridiculously at ease, so close to Sherlock, but as he thought back to their life before he realized this was only slightly new. It was new in the fact that the contact had never been so intentional, but Sherlock had never been one to respect personal space. He had constantly found minute ways to be in contact with John, even out on cases he would stand precariously close. An unconscious signal to everyone around, John was his blogger.

The only part of the whole affair that really made John uncomfortable was the idea of it, he would be sleeping with another man, in the most literal form of the phrase.

"I'm sorry Sherlock" John paused, hoping Sherlock would understand what he meant, he couldn't do this. "I'll just be down the hall." He meant the last bit to be reassuring, that he wasn't leaving, but it ended up coming out as yet another apology. John finished wrapping the bandage, but held onto Sherlock's arms lightly.

The detective felt as if the doctor's words had sliced through him, and when he spoke, his words were more clipped and sharp than he'd meant them to be. "You needn't apologize John, we're both adults here."

He stood, suddenly John's comfort had turned to fire against his skin, and he needed to be away. "Goodnight then." With a swish of his dressing gown he was gone before the doctor could speak.

John stood frozen until he heard the resounding click of Sherlock's door closing behind him. Pressing his hands into the cool tiles of the counter he hung his head in defeat, so much for fixing them. After a few short minutes John fumbled to his own bedroom, now much more aware of his limp than he had been in years.

He lay in bed for what felt like hours. There was a faint rustling coming from the floor below, somethings about the man would never change he supposed. Eventually, however, John managed to slip into a restless sleep where nightmares quickly plagued him.

Sherlock hadn't been able to sleep. He hadn't even bothered to turn the sheets down, and had just ended up laying down on top of the duvet. He was thinking of all the experiments he'd left behind, which ones he'd have to start over and whether or not he could have a smoke without being caught when he heard it the first time. A soft whimper he couldn't really place. Stilling he strained his ears, listening for some signal as to where the noise was coming from..

Then there was a groan of agony and a shout of his name. The detective was on his feet and sprinting up the stairs. His legs were still a little wobbly but he managed to make it to John's door without too much trouble. When he threw open the door, he saw the doctor thrashing in the sheets, hands clawed in the pillows, and face screwed up in agony. He hesitated only half a second before lunging for the man an gripping his shoulders tight.

"John, John! Wake up!" He laid a cool hand over the burning forehead hoping it would help return the man to the waking world, "John wake up! I'm here!" When the thrashing didn't stop he gripped the man's arms tight and began shaking him, gently at first, then harder until he woke.

John woke with a gasp, his mind still trapped in the depths of his nightmare. Without realizing who was trying to shake him awake John swung, his fist landing against Sherlock's chest.

The detective's breath was knocked out of him, and he coughed once, closing his eyes in those few seconds where air would not come to him. Sherlock had to hand it to the doctor, he had a powerful left hook, but when The younger man opened his eyes once more, his green gaze met a wild and frightened blue one.

Almost instinctually he wrapped his arms around the flailing man attempting to calm him, trapping his arms as well. "John. Calm down, it was only a nightmare. I'm here."

John writhed in Sherlock's arms desperately, seemingly unaware of his surroundings. It took nearly a full minute for John to relax enough to realize Sherlock was clutching him to his chest, speaking gently to him.

"Sherlock!" His friends name came out almost as a cry of relief. Something about Sherlock returning had made his normal terrors that much worse. He relaxed into the detectives grasp, breathing heavily against his chest as he tried to steady his breathing. His own chest was tight, anxiety and fear threatening to take over again if he closed his eyes. But his mind couldn't settle on that. He couldn't have Sherlock in here, there were too many secrets.

"I'm fine." He managed to gasp out, knowing that wasn't really true. "I-.. Tea. Downstairs." He muttered, trying to pulling himself from the detectives arms, who seemed to have relaxed once John had acknowledged his surroundings.

John stumbled to the door, shaking all over, but stopped there holding it open in a clear invitation for Sherlock to leave the room, now.

"I was only trying to help." The detective slid off the bed after the doctor, and for a moment he stood in the door. He couldn't tell if John intended to follow or not, and it made him feel uneasy. However the doctor's expression made him turn and head down the stairs anyway.

He filled the kettle and turned the burner on, absently rubbing his sternum where John had struck him. It throbbed with a dull ache and he was sure to have a bruise. Leaning against the counter, he ran a hand through his tousled curls. John had been screaming his name. Was he having nightmares about his fall or just losing his best friend?

Sherlock had thought at the time that he could handle whatever came after his decision to fake his own death. Now, he wasn't as certain.

John waited until he could hear Sherlock mucking about in the kitchen before he followed down the stairs. He padded into the kitchen slowly, not quite meeting the detectives gaze. Nothing like this had happened before, even when John had first moved in. Sure he had still had his nightmares, but they were calm, and rarely happened once he'd fallen into daily life with Sherlock.

Leaning against the back of the counter John kept his focus on the floor, his features hardened once more into a veil of military bearing. His eyes flicked to Sherlock momentarily as he muttered gruffly.

"I'm sorry about that. It's not normally that bad."

"No need to apologize John." He said softly. He raised his hand, remembering the way Lestrade would pat one of their shoulders at a crime scene when he approved of what they'd done. However before his hand rested on the doctor's shoulder, the kettle whistled.

Sighing, he fixed the tea, and handing the striped mug to the smaller man, "Are you positive you're alright?" His hand fell down to catch the doctor's arm around the bicep, his fingers chilly against the other man's skin.

John shudder slightly when Sherlock's fingers pressed against his skin, but the shaking seemed to stop at the touch. Taking a shaky breath he nodded, his own fingers slightly burning against ceramic mug. His focus turned to where Sherlock's hand was resting against his arm, and gradually John's mind began to feel less erratic.

Nodding once again, having not actually answered the first time, he cleared his throat and said, "Yeah... I mean no, but I will be." He finally looked back up at the detective, his piercing green eyes were almost painful but John offered them a sheepish grin and shrugged before dropping his gaze again.

Sherlock let his hand slide up to the doctor's shoulder, almost as if asking for those eyes to meet his again. He could see the way the man had relaxed under his touch and he wanted to experiment more to see if he was the catalyst or if the doctor was calming down by himself. He removed his hand and crossed his arms, his tea forgotten on the counter.

"You had nightmares before, but... these are different." he knew he was stating the obvious, but he'd learned that sometimes John just needed to be coaxed before he talked about things. "What changed about them?" His eyes flickered over John's body, searching for signs of tension at the lack of contact.

Sure enough John's frame quickly tensed up, his fingers gripping the mug in his hands a bit tighter. Again he didn't answer immediately, but when he did his voice was colder than it had been before.

"You know what changed." He didn't blame Sherlock, not really. Well, maybe he did, but it wasn't as if he was trying to make Sherlock guilty for it, not right now anyways. He simply didn't understand what Sherlock's motive was here. "You really want me to say it?"

"Would you feel better if you did? I know you need to talk about things... I'm not always capable of reading when you do or when you don't." He reached out and squeezed the doctor's shoulder, and reached for his tea, leaving his hand where it lay.

"You don't have to. I'm merely trying to help. Although I was asking what has changed with your nightmares not necessarily what changed to cause them, however since you approached the subject, that makes it a logical assumption that you do indeed need to talk about it." He turned his eyes to John once more, his expression softer than it had been all night.

Setting his cup down on the counter behind him John shook his head, lips pressed together tightly. "It's not that simple Sherlock." He started, for someone who had known his limp was psychosomatic from one look Sherlock really seemed to know nothing when it came to how people actually dealt with emotions.

"You're right, I probably need to talk about it. But I don't want to. It's painful enough seeing... seeing what I see at night, I don't want think about it any more than I have to." He had finally looked back up at Sherlock without shying away. The almost sympathetic look he was receiving was a bit alarming coming from Sherlock, but he pressed on. "And did it occur to you that the thing that caused my nightmares to come back is the same thing that changed about them?"

His head cocked to the side, carefully studying Sherlock's response. He was still exhausted from the nightmare and his anger was quickly taking over his addled mind. He wasn't angry at Sherlock because he'd caused the nightmares. No at the moment he was simply infuriated that the detective could stand there calm as ever, asking what had changed. "It all goes hand in hand Sherlock."

"You're angry." The statement was obvious, but Sherlock felt like he needed to say it anyway.

John's eyebrows raised in surprise. "No shit Sherlock." His brows knit together as he looked back at the detective, part of him realizing he might have been too harsh. "Do you understand why?"

"Because I was gone for three years? Because I didn't tell you? John this emotional nonsense doesn't make any sense to me, it never has!" Sherlock forced himself to stop and take a breath. If there was one emotion he knew well it was anger, and he refused to let himself fly off the handle at John.

"Yes. All of that is out in the open John. I don't understand necessarily why!" He gripped the man's upper arms with both hands , "Emotions are totally internal, and I know you think I can read minds John but I can't. And I know that you'll let this eat away at you. I'll watch it happen too, and it'll eat away at you until you blow up and do something idiotic, like have a row with a chip and pin machine and run off to Sarah's! No John, you can't just... hide from all this."

"I'm not!"

The two words ripped from his chest, a painful mix of emotions playing across his features. "I have to deal with this every day Sherlock. I'm not hiding from anything. I'm dealing with it." The outburst finished John's voice began to soften a bit. "I don't expect you to read my mind, but I do expect you to have a bit of understanding. You've been gone for three years. I'm not going to rehash the painful memories that haunt me because you think I need to talk."

The tremor that had been in his voice when he'd first woken from the nightmare was gone, as was the shaking. He looked back at Sherlock steadily, not making any move to pull away from the detectives grasp on his shoulders.

"I can't change what's been already been done." His voice was measured, as if he were trying to keep himself calm, "You act as if I did this to spite you, just to hurt you, and you couldn't be further from the truth. If you think for one moment that I was ignorant of your pain, then you are very narcissistic. I didn't leave immediately. I watched you for days, and I thought you were going to be alright. I thought you'd move on with your life. Isn't that what people do after the death of a friend? They have to."

His hands gripped tighter on John's arms like he thought the man was going to leave, "I didn't expect this. I didn't do what I did knowing that this would happen to you. Perhaps I was just in my actions, perhaps I was not, but one thing does remain. The moment I knew I could, I came back, and I think that should count for something. I'm trying to help you John, and you're not letting me. What more do you want from me?"

The last phrase was a little more raw than Sherlock was comfortable with, and he released the doctor's shoulders, turning away and taking his tea to the sitting room. Folding his long limbs onto the couch, he sipped his tea, suddenly feeling very exposed.

John ran a now shaky hand through his hair, trying to calm down. He did not want to fight with Sherlock right now. He was irritated and angry with the man, but frankly he just didn't have it in him. Once John felt as though he could speak to Sherlock without lashing back out he followed his friend, sitting on the opposite side of the small sofa.

"I'm not asking you for anything Sherlock." John leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his upturned hands. When he spoke again his voice was barely above a whisper. "I just can't talk about it all. It's too painful. Maybe you're right, maybe I am hiding from it all but... my nightmares haunt me enough. I don't want to think of them while I'm awake any more than I must."

Sitting back against the sofa, avoiding the detectives knowing eyes again John's voice hardened a bit, "I'm not trying to blame you for anything, but don't expect me to just open up to you. It's been a long time."

"You were never open with me." Sherlock set his tea on the table and carded both hands through his unruly curls.

"You never told me anything, I found it all out for myself because I'm observant. I knew things you didn't necessarily want me to know. I don't expect you to be... This is why I don't..." His hands flittered between them as he struggled to explain, " I don't do nice. I don't comfort. People always end up worse off after I've tried."

Flopping back against the couch, his knee brushed the doctors as he sprawled out in almost mock anguish, "That, along with the fact that it's tedious and exhausting with rarely positive results..."

"Then it's settled." John interjected, unconsciously leaning toward the detective a bit. "You be your normal obtuse self. I'm not expecting you to fix me." It was the closest John could come to admitting he was broken. He closed his eyes and let his head fall against the back of the sofa softly, mentally and physically exhausted from the past day.

"It's not like there's a book I can read on the matter John. I've hurt people before and they generally run off, and if they do talk to me again, it was never something of this caliber. People have always been replaceable in my life. When confronted with someone who is not..." His mind was chaotic, trying to pull in words that would express his meaning, calculating John's reactions, and trying to find ways out of the argument.

Huffing a sigh of frustration, he leaned over, his head coming to rest on the doctor's shoulder, craving the calm he knew it would bring. "I haven't... I've never hurt someone like this and I am unable to appropriately gauge how best to proceed. Losing you, your friendship would be disastrous. And it is my experience that my normal obtuse and aloof attitude does not condone one staying after something of this magnitude." The tendrils of calm spiraled through his body, starting at all the contact points where he was touching the smaller blonde, forcing the nervous thoughts away and replacing them with a hazy warmth.

A small, almost sad smile pulled at the corners of John's lips. It was ridiculous, but Sherlock's words were endearing and if John was being honest with himself, losing Sherlock a second time would be just as disastrous as the first. John quickly relaxed into Sherlock's hold on him, leaning his head to rest on top of the dark curls.

"I'm not going anywhere Sherlock... I'm probably nuts, but... We'll figure things out okay? You know I'll tell you if you're doing something a bit not good." The anger he'd felt earlier had completely dissipated when Sherlock had leaned into him. He had just gotten the detective back, the last thing he wanted to do was make Sherlock think he wasn't wanted.

"Sleep with me." The words were out of Sherlock's mouth before he thought about the way they might sound to the other man, "I can feel how the reassurance of my being here relaxes you."

He didn't look at the doctor, just let his fingers twist in the man's shirt tail, "Try it tonight? If it doesn't work, then I'll admit I was wrong and you can go back to your nightmares. However, I really think it will work, and if I can offer a reprieve from something I caused..." He trailed off before clearing his throat. He pushed on so as not to sound too different from his normal self, "besides you want me to sleep, we both know I need it but my mind won't shut off, I've been on the run too long. You make it quiet. So I you don't do it for you, acquiesce for me?"

John swallowed thickly, his mind twisting and turning with internal debate. It was nice, the contact, the physical reminder that Sherlock was not dead, that he was home, but that did not change how the idea of sleeping with another man made the part of his mind that practically screamed straight cringe.

But Sherlock was right, they both needed to sleep and they needed the added comfort of each others presence, so John managed to make a deal with the battling sides of his mind. It would be be fine, it would all be fine, as long as it was just to allow them both the rest they needed.

He nodded against the top of Sherlock's head, "Yeah. We can try it. Your bed?"

"Of course. I imagine the intimacy of sleeping on your tiny twin bed would be to much for your psyche." He smirked softly before sliding to his feet, "Come on doctor Watson. At your leisure." And he strode off to his room.

John took a deep breath before pushing himself to his feet and following the detective to his room. The memories weren't quite as suffocating now that Sherlock was in the room with him, but he still made it a point not to look around the room, standing awkwardly in the doorway as he watched to detective slip into the bed.

When Sherlock scooted to the side, leaving a space for him, John made his way to the bed only dragging his feet a little. He was still a bit apprehensive but he clambered into bed next to Sherlock, leaving a few carefully measured inches of space between them.

The detective knew the doctor would be uncomfortable with too much contact, so he kept it light, unassuming. Cool hands started at the doctor's shoulders and slid down to his shoulder blades before his right arm slipped outwards to pillow the soldier's head. His other arm stayed wedged between them, a barrier for John's benefit to keep them from getting too close.

Sherlock felt his mind quiet again, and let out a contented sigh. The feeling of exhaustion crept up on him and suddenly his eyelids were very heavy. "Comfortable?" He asked finally, a yawn in his voice giving him away.

"Mmhmm." John mumbled softly and he was, for the first time in a long time he was warm and comfortable. There was a familiar voice nagging at the back of his mind asking what the hell they were doing, but he'd deal with it later. For now it seemed that he would be able to find peaceful sleep for the first time in years.

"Good." Sherlock said softly before closing his eyes and actually drifting off into a deep sleep.


	6. Somewhere I belong

It wasn't until the sun began to gleam in through the small crack in the shutters that John woke up. Everything felt foreign and it took a moment to recall the night before, and whose body was wrapped so tightly around his own.

Sherlock was back. John opened his eyes, testing to see that it was really him, and sure enough the consulting detective was there. He didn't dare move. Somehow during the night he had turned into Sherlock, his face tucked tightly under the younger man's chin causing his nose to press the groove between Sherlock's collarbones. John couldn't help but think he smelt faintly of dust, but that must have been the clothes, which had sat untouched for so long. Trying not to fixate on how badly he wanted to nuzzle deeper into Sherlock's chest and drift back to sleep John focused on what was transpiring between the two of them. The detective's lanky arms wrapped clear around John, one running under his head with his fingers lacing through John's hair, the other wrapped over the small of his back, his hand tucked neatly underneath John's waist. One of John's legs had been captured during the night by his now, bedmate. Deciding he wanted to try and fix that particularly, before Sherlock woke, he attempted to slide the leg out without jostling the sleeping man.

Eyebrows knitted together as the leg was moved, and Sherlock instinctively gripped tightly to everything he held in order to keep it from being taken away from him. He was no longer in as deep a slumber as he had been, but he was not awake either. With the movement that had brought him closer to the world of the waking, he shifted,moving his legs from their cramped position, and stretching one of them forward, successfully releasing John's leg but tucking his own between John's ankles.

His body naturally snuggled closer to the warmth coming from the man in his arms, and his face tilted towards John's hair, wanting to burrow away from any thoughts of waking. However, he was slowly but surely moving that way, and a soft moan of displeasure and another squeeze to the body in his arms voiced it. He desperately dug in with the heels of his mind, trying to go back to that blissful place.

Sherlock seemed less than willing to give up any sort of hold on John. John tried not to laugh as he was essentially being used as a life size teddy bear. "Sherlock?" he cooed softly, trying to wriggle out of the powerful grasp, "I'm just gonna go make some tea." The more aware he became of their proximity the more desperately John felt he needed to put some space between them. His initial feelings upon waking up were warmth, happiness, but some of the emotions from the night before were beginning to creep back and a sort of panic was beginning to set in.

He spoke a little more forcefully and with more volume as he pushed against Sherlock's chest softly, "Sherlock, come on, budge up."

Sherlock didn't want to leave the warmth that surrounded him. He knew that the cold stark world was waiting for him, and he had no wish to return there. But when John's panicked voice sliced through his dream state, his eyes opened and he took in their position.

He had John tight in his arms, John's head tucked beneath his chin and their legs were twined together. John was pushing at his chest and trying to get away. A pained expression crossed his face as he instantly released John and pushed away from him, giving the other his space.

"Apologies " he muttered, sounding a bit too much like Mycroft as he avoided Johns gaze and rolled onto his other side, pulling the blankets up over his head, "I'd like to sleep a bit more if that's alright." He curled up, knees to his chest and closed his eyes, knowing full well he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep. His mind started rattling off reasons for the other man's sudden withdrawal. He frowned and rubbed his temples. The sudden noise of his brain starting up again was deafening.

John closed his eyes, breathing for a moment when Sherlock's body left his own. He wasn't sure if he was more relieved or disappointed at the loss. Sitting up he glanced back over at Sherlock, who had pulled the blankets over his head in an obvious sulk. There was no stopping the smirk that pulled at the corner of John's lips at the sight, Sherlock really hadn't changed all that much.

Pulling on the edge of the blanket, so it slid down enough that he could see the curly mess of hair, his face turned away. It hadn't really been fair for him to push Sherlock away, he had enjoyed being held like that, and now that they weren't intertwined the fear had ebbed away. "I didn't mean it like that Sherlock. I just got overwhelmed. Come on, I'll make tea." He placed a hand on Sherlock's hip through the blanket, urging him to roll back towards him with a slight amount of pressure.

A low grumble came from the detective, and he knew he was being childish. All he would end up doing was sulking anyway, he might as well get up, but that didn't mean he was going to let John off easy. However the touch on his hip felt misplaced and his eyebrows rose unseen. The fingers almost burned through the material. Odd. He filed it away to think on and examine later

He rolled over enough that one eye was visible and sent a glare that was playfully cold. "I might still be tired did you think of that?" He rolled back over and plopped his face into the pillow.

"I can't go back to sleep now though..." His voice was muffled by the pillow and he raised a hand waving the man off. "Go on, I'll be along shortly."

John hesitated for a moment, thinking he should at least say something else, but instead let out a defeated sigh and stole from the room quietly. Once down stairs he fell into the domestic act of preparing tea, happy to be able to put out two cups once again. A habit that had been hard to break years before.

As the water boiled he searched through the fridge for something Sherlock might be able to stomach. The fridge was surprisingly barren, save for the chinese that had caused such a horrible result the night before. Settling on toast John popped two slices into the toaster oven. "Butter or Jam?" he called down the hall to the room as he poured the steaming water over the tea bags.

"Just tea for me thanks..." he called, sitting up and running a hand through his unruly curls. He stood, grabbed some fresh clothes, then made a break for the bathroom. After an extremely quick shower, just enough to wash some of the sweat away and wash his hair, he dressed and brushed his teeth with the spare he always kept hidden. He was quite happy John hadn't found it.

John shook his head at Sherlock's response, he needed to eat something. Deciding butter was the simplest choice he pulled it from the fridge. It wasn't long before he heard the water running in the shower, at least Sherlock had pulled himself out of bed. John was sure he was going to have to coax him out after finishing the tea.

He came back downstairs, buttoning up the last button on his shirt, leaving the top two undone, and a pair of slacks. Shaking his wet hair out of his eyes, he ventured into the kitchen to see what John was fixing. He wouldn't have taken Sherlock's request just for tea, the younger man knew him too well for that.

After preparing their tea and toast accordingly John placed the small excuse for a meal on the kitchen table. By the time Sherlock made his way into the kitchen John had retrieved his novel and was holding it open over his plate. His toast lay half eaten, almost forgotten, but his own tea had been finished off quickly. Sherlock's tea and unwanted toast was set out for him on the table, waiting. John was actually finding it surprisingly difficult to focus on the words. In fact he had been stuck the same page since he opened the book. He assumed his expression would hold that of one who was enthralled by the material in front of him, but John's mind was elsewhere.

He knew why he had pushed away from Sherlock so fervently, his mind had been working at the problem since he left the room. John had honestly liked the touch, just as he had liked waking up in the morning with women he'd been with. But with Sherlock it was different too, because he had never felt such unconditional love or faith in a person. Of course he had felt that with Sherlock, he would follow him into anything, but John had always thought it to be platonic. But now, with the memory of nuzzling into Sherlock's chest burned into his mind, John wasn't sure of his own intentions, and that scared the hell out of him. Fear. Fear of his own actions had led John to pushing Sherlock away, and John felt bad that he had done so.

As Sherlock entered the kitchen John stole a glance. He did clean up well, even as strung out as he was. Offering a small smile John nodded toward the plate. "You might need to heat your tea back up in the microwave, but you need to eat something.

The detective grumbled silently to himself as he put his tea in the microwave for about 20 seconds to heat it up. Eating was the absolute last thing he wanted to do, but he supposed that bread would be the easiest thing on his stomach. When the microwave beeped he pulled the mug out and took a seat at the table, frowning at the offensive food before him, but one glance up at John reminded him of the argument from the night before and he frowned. John had given in to his request, it was only right for him to reciprocate. Raising the toast, he took a bite, decided it wasn't half bad and took another before setting it down in favor of his tea.

He also had been doing some thinking about this morning. He had several theories, but each of them had their holes. Perhaps it hadn't worked for John as well as it had for Sherlock. Perhaps he'd had a nightmare and lay awake for hours without him knowing. Perhaps he just decided that he didn't want to be so close to Sherlock. Or maybe he was just normal and didn't want to be cuddled by another man. This was John "I'm not gay" Watson they were talking about. He never did care for labels like that, but then again he didn't really understand nor care to understand the concept of love. However, things had been changing in him, and he found that the emotions he'd been able to keep at bay were sweeping through him with a force he found hard to contest. He found himself actually feeling bad for things he'd done, which had been unheard of before the doctor came along.

"How did you sleep?" he asked nonchalantly over the mug.

Setting the book down, dogging the page as he did so, John looked up at Sherlock. He smiled, seeing that Sherlock was again, willingly eating. Hopefully this go around wouldn't end quite so violently.

"Great actually," And he had, up until the point where he lost control of himself. He hadn't woken up in a sweat, nor had he been plagued by the almost constant nightmares. "Best night rest I've had in months. Thank you Sherlock." Confused as he was about his own feelings, John couldn't imagine Sherlock had any ulterior motive or feelings toward John, he couldn't imagine Sherlock had romantic or sexual feelings toward anyone for that matter. So he smiled, trying to assure the man that his actions from the morning did not reflect Sherlock doing anything wrong.

"You?" John reciprocated the question with equal nonchalance, though he knew he would hang on the detectives every word.

"Good." He said through a mouthful of toast, "No nightmares here." He half smiled at his flat mate and pulled his phone out of his pocket, scanning the news.

"You know we will have to go get my status of deceased changed at some point..." He said, "I wonder if Lestrade has any new cases..." Things felt like they were back to normal. He suppose there were a few people he needed to contact about his not being dead, John had just been the first and most important. The only one that really mattered in his eyes.

"I suppose Mycroft could smooth it all over, he knows the whole story... That way I wouldn't have to retell it a thousand times. In fact. I think I'll do that. He does owe me a favor after all." There was a slight bitterness in his tone, the betrayal of his own brother had been a hard pill to take.

John leaned forward in his seat, obviously eager for information. "So you can't tell me what you had to do this whole time, but could you tell me how? I mean what did Mycroft have to do in all of this? I found a few things out on my own, but none of it made any sense after you'd left." That wasn't entirely true. John had been close behind Mycroft the day Sherlock jumped, but after found he couldn't be bothered. WIth Sherlock gone, nothing really had seemed of much importance. "How are we going explain this away?"

"Mycroft was my one connection to you." The words were out of his mouth before they were really thought through, and he pushed on, hoping to blow over them. "He's also helped me monetarily with travels and needs I had. However, any report can be forged, look at Irene. She died and came back. It's been so long people will have forgotten the exact circumstances, and everyone loves a good scandal."

He smiled, "People believe what they want to believe, not what necessarily makes sense."

It was as if something clicked deep within the recesses of John's mind. He absorbed everything that Sherlock said, but disregarded pretty much everything save for the information about Mycroft. A small sound of comprehension escaped his lips and he gave a short nod as Sherlock went on.

Letting out a sound that was practically a growl John explained his discovery. "That's why Mycroft was constantly hounding me. God between him, Lestrade, and Harry, you'd think they had been taking shifts on me." Suddenly understanding washed over him in waves, making his jaw set tightly, he couldn't believe he'd been so blind. "Jesus, they were taking shifts weren't they?" He directed the question at Sherlock, not sure if he actually had an answer, but if Mycroft had been working with Lestrade and Harry it was likely that Sherlock was aware of the fact.

He dropped his face into his hands, heels pressing against his eyes as he let out another frustrated sound.. Had he really got so bad that they had placed a watch on him? A part of him had known at the time that was what they were doing, but to step back and see just how far he had spiraled out of control was beyond frustrating.

"I was aware Mycroft had enlisted help but I was not aware who it was. That does make sense that he would choose those two. They would be the most worried about you and it would seem the least suspicious. If say Mrs. Hudson constantly asked you if you were alright, it would seem out of character even though she cares deeply for you... It's highly unlikely that Harry knows that it was anything more than the illusion of my family consoling yours to make sure you didn't take legal action or some silliness of the sort."

Sherlock took another bite of his toast and washed it down with tea before continuing, "Lestrade however, he is a wild card. He often knows more than he lets on. It's highly likely that he had his suspicions but wouldn't voice them even if you asked. I expect some sort of violence from him if he doesn't already know I'm alive. I would not doubt Mycroft would put his faith in such a man. I heard you struck up quite a friendship in my absence..." The last bit sounded a little bit jealous and Sherlock found himself surprised at his tone. What did he care if they'd become friends in his absence? Hadn't he wanted John to move on? However he knew it was because those were years of acceptance with John that he couldn't get back. Now that he had seen John's predicament, he was sure that Mycroft had been lying to him. Which opened up a new question of, what else had Mycroft been lying about?

"Which is good, at least you had someone to talk to while I was away..."

Raising his face from his hands John cocked his head to the side, "Lestrade and I?" They had been friends before the fall, went out for a pint or two occasionally after harder cases. Shared the wonder and burden that had been Sherlock's friendship, but since the fake suicide the friendship had been very one sided. The things that they had once bonded over, the cases, Sherlock, were gone and as John spiraled into depression he hadn't seen a need for friends.

Lestrade had stuck by him, calling every few days, stopping in at random times and stealthily checking that there was actually food in the fridge, other than beer he had even forced him to go out on a few occasions, and John had appreciated the gesture. Though he often told Lestrade the care was unnecessary, when what he had meant was unwanted. Surprisingly even after three years the Detective Inspector still regularly checked in on him. John made a note in his mind to thank and apologize to him as soon as possible.

"Did Mycroft say that?" John wasn't sure why Mycroft would have exaggerated the friendship between himself and Lestrade, but he didn't want to flat out deny the fact until he understood why Sherlock thought so.

Sherlock raised one eyebrow at the question. "Yes John. I could hardly pop in myself for a chinwag." However his sarcasm was overshadowed by the fact Mycroft had lied to him. It was obvious from John's reaction.

The doctor had been worse off than he had expected when he returned. Perhaps Mycroft had been feeding him false information to keep him on task. It sounded like something he would do. And Sherlock knew that if he had known half of what he knew about John's predicament then that he knew now, he would have come home running, coattails flailing as usual.

"No matter." he said waving everything about it away, "Mycroft will no doubt be able to have me reinstated as alive with no one really noticing. I can be sworn alive in front of a judge that will keep quiet, and then I can actually start solving cases again. Of course we'll have to be discreet, but I'm sure we can come up with something to tell the press if and when they figure it out. For now I think they're quite bored with my story..."

"Quite." John agreed quietly, his lips quirked to the side, contemplating the likelihood of everything going according to plan so Sherlock could return to the cases. It was unbelievably important that Sherlock be able to get back to work, and soon. John couldn't help but look Sherlock over, he was doing well for how strung out he had seemed the previous night.

"We'll just have to start out with some smaller cases, we don't need to get our name in lights like last time. You got too big Sherlock." Plus starting with smaller cases John could dog Sherlock a bit easier, make sure he was sticking to the plan, staying clean. Larger cases often lead to the detective disappearing after a perp that should be left to the Yard. John couldn't have him getting hurt or worse. Not again, and not so soon.

Standing John moved to clear off the table. "I'll reactivate the blog, but it'll take some time to rebuild readership. When do you plan on telling Lestrade?"

"It's not like it was intentional to get famous John..." it hadn't been. It was always about the cases, never about the fame. He couldn't have cared less about being famous. He frowned as he thought, "Perhaps we should have some kind of contract where they're not allowed to talk to the media about us...Think on that John. And I'll need to tell Lestrade soon. I figure I'll give it a few days to get settled back in here, give myself some time to recover, and then we can invite him over or something of the like.."

Sherlock ate the rest of his toast and finished off his tea. "Are you done with that?" he asked pointing to John's forgotten tea and toast. "If so let me have them." He intended to take them to the sink for the man. Now that he had gotten some food and tea in his stomach, he was getting drowsy again, and he figured taking a nap on the couch sounded like an excellent idea.

Slightly startled by Sherlock's offer John nodded mutely, pushing the dishes toward Sherlock. "We can write up a contract, but you will have to contain yourself then. It would mean you wouldn't be able to do anything on the case until they agreed to our terms." John thought back to the many cases in which Sherlock had begun investigating official cases without even getting the go ahead from Lestrade. "Plus it won't stop all the talk." Letting out a sigh John shrugged, "I'll look into it, maybe the fact that we have such a contract will be enough to encourage some people into minding their own business."

John stood leaning against the counter as Sherlock cleared their breakfast. He couldn't help but smile at the offer. Walking around to the fridge John peered in again, the evidence that he hadn't been caring for himself was staggering as the empty fridge stared back at him. At least for the moment it was void of body parts. "You know I do need to run to the shop for some groceries, if you want to get out of the flat later?" John didn't move from the fridge, waiting for the answer. Just how much had Sherlock changed?

The brunette's nose wrinkled at the thought of something as mundane as grocery shopping, but he supposed he really had nothing better to do. "That sounds extremely tedious." his words sounded annoyed, but his voice changed as he continued while absently doing the dishes up from breakfast, "I suppose I'll go with you though, I don't really fancy being left alone for now, and I don't really trust myself alone either..." he trailed off, knowing he wouldn't have to elaborate for John to understand.

He finished doing up the dishes and placed them on the drying rack to the left of the sink, and returned the slightly wet kettle back to it's place at the rear of the stove. Doing these mundane things felt like therapy, like the small bit of normalcy could bring him flawlessly back into this world. He sighed as he finished and moved to the sitting room where the couch was calling to him. When he finally slid down into the softness of it,he rolled, putting his back to the room, and called out softly, "Wake me before you leave," he snuggled down deeper into the cushions and tried to block out the sounds of the other man, moving about the kitchen and sitting room, going about daily business. He hoped that he would be able to drift off, but he knew just being close to John was enough to comfortably lull him into sleep.

Following Sherlock into the sitting room John grabbed an afghan that had been lying across the back of his armchair, and moved to the sofa, draping the blanket over Sherlock. It would probably be sometime before Sherlock stopped feeling tired, his body was completely spent and some things only time could fix. "Just get some rest," he murmured as he moved to sit at the small writing desk where his laptop resided, "I won't go anywhere without you, don't worry."

Powering on the laptop, which was now rarely used, John fiddled with the wireless mouse keeping an eye on Sherlock. Finally the log on screen appeared and John began the arduous process of reactivating his blog. It wasn't really all that hard, he just had to recreate his account, and when prompted, say he did have a previous account and would like to restore all of the lost data. John wondered for a moment what the point of deleting it had been if there was still record of everything somewhere.

The process only took about ten minutes and then he found himself facing a blinking cursor, taunting John with the words that simply would not spill from his fingers. He wasn't even sure they were going public yet, but at some point, soon, they would and John would have to post something here on the blog to reinstate their business.

John thought back to the headlines after the fall. Suicide of Fake Genius. Smiling he filled in the title of the blog, even if Sherlock found titles pointless they could be quite the attention getters.

Fake Suicide of Genius.

Sherlock probably wouldn't approve, and he would most likely be forced to change it before actually publishing the post, but it made John smile none the less. Saving the post as a draft John closed the laptop with a resounding click. There was no point in trying to write the post until Sherlock had actually been declared living.

Grabbing his novel from the table John fell into his armchair, a newfound comfort in his whole presence. Settling into his chair and opening the book he finally managed to relax and read. He had considered lying down with Sherlock, make-up for his reaction that morning, but he was pretty sure Sherlock was actually asleep and he didn't want to wake him. He'd fix things later that night, they wouldn't have fit well on the couch together anyways.

John had barely made it five pages when the doorbell rang from down stairs, a short impatient press of the buzzer.

Sherlock had in fact been asleep. When the afghan had settled over him, he had almost felt like John had been tucking him in. He had been at that point where he was really about to drop off when the buzzer pierced through his mind jarring him into wakefulness. With a groan he covered his ears and curled up tighter before sitting up entirely.

"Who for God's sake would be calling this early?" With a sniff he flung himself back down on the couch as another buzz filled the flat. "Someone very impatient apparently." The detective peeked over his shoulder to see if John were going to answer the door.

"Obviously," John muttered, slightly chuffed that whomever was calling had woken up the detective. Placing his open book face down on the armrest of his chair John headed down stairs quickly

Outside, Greg Lestrade was anxiously waiting for John to answer the door. Mycroft had said he'd had an intruder, but that it wasn't an emergency. Whatever the hell that meant. His sunglasses were flipped up on top of his head now that he was standing on the stoop, but it was a bright and clear day. All of the rain and clouds from the day before had blown on and it looked like Britain would have a day to dry up a little before the rain came back.


	7. Loner Phase

Lestrade rang the buzzer again, and tapped his foot impatiently. John had about 35 seconds to answer this damned door before he knocked it down. Emergency or not, he had to make sure John was alright. The doctor and the inspector had become good friends before things happened to make John totally introverted. He had been able to share a pint or two with the man, and blow off steam about his needy and jealous wife, and John always had a good word or two for him, but after things happened with Sherlock, everything changed. The good natured soldier had gone, and he'd known the man hadn't wanted his help. But he made sure it was always there for him, if he ever changed his mind.

Another buzzer push, 25 seconds now.

"Oi!," John hollered as the buzzer went off again, as he was descending the stairs. Who the hell was this impatient, really. As he reached the front door of 221B he threw it open, a look of pure annoyance written across his face, "Who the blood-."

His question was cut short as he opened the door to find a very anxious looking Lestrade waiting on the stoop. John glanced nervously upstairs, wondering if somehow he knew that Sherlock was back. Turning back to face the Detective Inspector John cleared his throat before speaking, "Oh Greg, I uh- I wasn't expecting you. What's going on?"

He put on a friendly smile, remembering just how poorly he had treated the man over the past three years. God, John thought to himself, he didn't even know anything about Greg any more.

Lestrade had a hand on his pistol and glanced around the hallway. "Mycroft called. He told me you had an intruder. He said it wasn't an emergency, and I couldn't imagine an intruder you couldn't handle but..."

He started to push past John so that he could see inside the flat. "Is everything okay?" To be honest, Lestrade had missed their friendship. He missed being able to talk to the doctor, and listen and help him through his own troubles. "Don't try to tell me not to worry, Mycroft told me not to leave until I checked everything out. Will you let me sweep the house just to appease him?"

"Oh, for god sakes," John started shaking his head, "Seriously can't Mycroft just come deal with these things himself? What the hell did he send you all revved up for." John had to grab Lestrade by his sleeve as he shut the door. "I'm sure he knows damn well who is here. And there's no need to be trigger happy, in fact I'd rather you take your hand off the gun. Everything is fine here, just had a visit from... An old friend."

Taking a few quick steps so he was ahead of Lestrade John hollered up stairs, mostly to warn Sherlock, "Greg's here, apparently Mycroft sent him to check on us." Then stepping aside he gestured for the detective to go ahead. "Try and keep your wits about you."

Greg turned and looked at John with an odd expression, but did as he requested, and took his hand off his gun. He trotted up the stairs, trench coat whirling, but what he saw stopped him in the doorway.

Sherlock, who had obviously heard John's call up the stairs had stood and moved to the middle of the room. Which was a good move on his part, because Lestrade's hesitation was only momentary, and then he was lunging at Sherlock, knocking him to the ground, then rearing back with a wild hand landing a heavy punch square in Sherlock's jaw.

John was only half way up the stairs when Lestrade pushed through the door, his limp slowing his ascent. He had just seen Sherlock standing in wait in the center of the sitting room for a moment before he was attacked. "Shit!" John cursed as he hurried up the last few steps.

"You filthy arse! What the hell are you doing! You're supposed to be dead!" Sherlock had barely enough time to bring his arms up before the next blow rained down on him.

"You bloody prick! Do you know what you put John through, what you put all of us through!? WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE!?"

Sherlock curled up trying to shield himself from the bigger man's blows. It had been a while since he'd been beaten like this. This must have been Mycroft getting back at him for his earlier comment.

"Lestrade!" John hurried to the centre of the room, pulling the man off of Sherlock, "This is keeping your wits?!" Pulling the larger man off of Sherlock he gave him a small shove in the opposite direction for good measure, settling himself in between the two. He glared pointedly at Lestrade, his shoulders pressed back. He was about a head shorter than the other man, but his intent was still apparent.

Before dropping to inspect the damage done to Sherlock, he nodded toward the kitchen and spat, "Go cool off."

"As if I don't have a enough to deal with without you two going at it," John grumbled bitterly.

Lestrade felt himself bodily pulled from Sherlock and was surprised at the strength the smaller man possessed. He was shoved again and he straightened his coat as he paced in front of the doorway to the kitchen. "John, you need to tell me what's going on... How long has he been back? Why aren't you angry?"

Sherlock laid his hand on John's arm, his face was already beginning to darken where Lestrade had struck him. His nose was bleeding and he felt a little woozy. But he didn't want John to be angry with the man. His eyes were bright and tried to convey his meanings.

"Don't be mad at him John. He has every right to be frustrated. And he's right... You should be mad at me."

"Damn straight!" the DI said, coming forward again towards the two, "You didn't have to see John in those first couple of months. Hell it still breaks my heart to see him like this, and you just waltz back into his life like nothing happened? Do you know how much John changed when you left? You should be ashamed of yourself you sorry sack of shite!"

Cupping Sherlock's chin with one hand John turned his face this way and that, inspecting the damage. The words being thrown at Sherlock caused John to stand again, stepping towards the other man forcefully.

"That's enough Lestrade." He put as much venom into the words as possible. Sherlock didn't need to know everything, he didn't need to know just how far John had spiraled into depression. "He's back. That's why I'm not angry. And what the hell are you doing anyways? You Mycroft's gopher boy now?"

Deep down, he knew Sherlock was right. The man had a right to be pissed as hell, and John shouldn't have been pushing him, but he couldn't help it. He pressed forward, challenging Lestrade to say anything else derogatory about him.

Lestrade refused to back down, puffing up his chest. Friend or not, sometimes John didn't know what was best for himself. "Gopher boy? No, we have similar interests John. Your well being happens to be one of them. He must have known this tosser was back... That's why he sent me I bet..."

Sherlock could see John gearing up for a fight and called out softly as he sat up. "John..." He held his hand out towards the doctor. "Help me up please?" He asked. The words the detective inspector had flung at him had pierced him through the heart and they hurt. The worst part was that he knew he deserved every bit of it.

The men didn't back down until Lestrade's phone sounded. A females voice filled the room, causing Sherlock to raise an eyebrow at Greg.

Now that it's raining more than ever

Know That we'll still have each other

You can stand under my umbrella

You can stand under my umbrella-Ella-Ella

Greg rolled his eyes and sighed, "Someone's idea of a joke..." He grumbled before checking his text from Mycroft.

May I assume you've met John's guest? My apologies for not warning you beforehand. I simply felt he deserved a proper welcome from someone. I knew I could trust you to not coddle him. MH

The odd ringtone had served as a sort of comedic relief as John's shoulders dropped slightly and he turned to help Sherlock up from the floor. Once he was on his feet John led him to his oversized arm chair and pushed past Lestrade, into the kitchen.

"Back with the wife then?" John called back, not really waiting for an answer. Who else would be changing his text alerts? He began rummaging through the drawers for a ziploc bag to fill with ice. In less than a minute he was back by Sherlock with a bag of ice wrapped in a kitchen towel.

"Try and stop the swelling," he muttered, pressing it softly to the rapidly forming bruises and bringing one of Sherlock's hands up to hold it in place. He turned back to Lestrade, the initial hostility gone. "Listen, Greg. I'm sorry for. . ." there wasn't really a way to apologize for how he'd treated him the past three years. "for everything. I was out of sorts, obviously. Just- Thank you."

The detective Inspector waved away John's apology, silently saying that it wasn't necessary.

"No my eldest Portia got a hold of my phone and changed all the text noises...she was determined to set a ringtone that fit each person in my contacts. When she asked about Mycroft I told her he always carried an umbrella..." He rolled his eyes.

Sherlock sat on the couch watching the exchange take place. As he looked at Lestrade, several things became quite apparent to him. No wedding ring, and the tan line was almost gone. He's gotten divorced, quite some time ago it seemed. However, there was a flush on his cheeks and the style of his hair and clothes told him a lot about his current interests.

"Have you found someone new then?" He asked, his voice coming out muffled around the ice at his jaw. "But the lack of feminine perfume and more than one cologne on you suggests that it's a man you've run to, not another woman..."

Lestrade blushed and stammered a reply, "That's hardly any of your business now is it?" He cleared his throat and turned back to John, deciding to acknowledge John's apology just to change the topic.

"It's alright..." He placed a hand on John's shoulder, "We all knew you were in a bad place. No harm done." He smiled as he looked down at John and a loud bang resounded behind them causing Greg to turn and look at where Sherlock had tossed the bag of ice down on the table.

"Bloody hell Sherl-," John started, but he was cut off as Sherlock started in on Lestrade

"Are you going to continue ogle at my flat mate or are we going to get down to why you are here in the first place..." His eyes were sharp and his anger was starting to rise. There was only one person Lestrade had been obsessing over since his divorce and that was John. The detective wasn't sure why but thinking of the inspector fawning over John made him increasingly angry.

"Mycroft wanted me to give you a proper welcome..." He sneered back at the detective, "He felt John has coddled you too much since you came back apparently..."

Stepping in between the two, so as to break the venomous glares being shot at each other, John threw his hands up in frustration. "Can you two just behave yourselves? Honestly!" John shot Sherlock an incredulous look, clearly Sherlock was seeing something John wasn't. Turning his attention away from the fuming brunette John continued, "I have not coddled him. And if Mycroft is so worried about Sherlock's welcoming committee then why didn't he come himself?"

"Because it's Mycroft..." Both men replied, which caused another round of glaring. Sherlock was at the point he wasn't sure if he wanted to ask the detective inspector for a case now. But the threat of boredom killed that thought before it had a chance to sprout.

"John and I were just talking about checking with you to see if you had a case..." Sherlock tried to sound pleasant... He didn't.

"Not at the moment no..." He replied, the venom in his voice gone, "but now that I know you're back, I'll call you the moment I have something worth your time.." The phrase sounded snide, the detective inspectors rage not quite dissipated either.

Sherlock sighed. It looked like going to the grocery with John was unavoidable.

"It'd be much appreciated," John added at the end of Sherlock's defeated sigh. Then wanting to put as much space as he could between the two before tempers rose again John nodded toward the door. "Well if that's all I'll walk you out." He didn't want to seem like he was kicking Lestrade out, but seen as the two had finally begun to speak civilly he didn't want to give either of them a chance to ruin it. Reaching the door in a few steps he held it open gesturing for the other man to go first.

He shot Sherlock a warning glance. John didn't need him giving any more smart remarks. Plus this would give him and Lestrade a chance to talk without Sherlock leering at them from his corner of the room.

Sherlock threw a glare right back at John, but waved them off, opting instead to return to his room and burrow under the covers to think and maybe get a little more rest before John decided to go to the grocery.

Lestrade nodded to John and headed down the stairs towards the front door, and waited for John at the bottom. "Are you okay, I mean, really. Are you okay with him being back here? You were really messed up there for a while."

John followed close behind Lestrade, stopping to lean against the guide rail as the other spoke. "I am. Really." John paused, drawing in a difficult breath, his hand swept through his hair, "I mean it's hard, but he's been through hell too Greg. I can't just. . ." he shook his head defeated. "It's insane huh?"

"No, it's not insane..." He said softly, "sometimes you do crazy things for the people you care about." He gave John a knowing smile, "Just... If you need anything, or if it gets to be too much... You have my number." He patted John on the shoulder and turned to leave, but before he was out the door he turned back.

"I'm glad he's back. I want you to know that. But seeing what he put you through... You can understand why we would all be upset that he just expects you to accept him back into your life like nothing happened... Take care John." With that, he whisked out the door. He was on his way to have a very stern talk with Mycroft.

As the door fell shut behind Lestrade with a resounding snap John slipped to sit on the third last step. He understood where Lestrade was coming from, but at this point John needed Sherlock just as badly as Sherlock needed him. There was no way he could not let that curly headed shit back into his life.

He sat there for a few moments, letting everything that had just happened sink in. His thoughts moved to the comment Sherlock had aimed at Lestrade. He had known things were on the rocks with his wife so it made sense that they had gotten divorced at some point over the past three years, but a bloke? That wasn't something John had expected to hear, but Sherlock was rarely ever wrong.

Letting out a heavy breath John trekked back up stairs to find the sitting room rather void of Sherlock. It didn't take him long to find the detective curled up in bed, the covers tucked tightly around his shoulders. His breathing was slow and heavy, so John could only assume he was out once again.

John chewed at his lip, contemplating his next move carefully before letting out a quick breath, determined to make things right between the two of them. Even though he was still rather uncertain as to what right meant for them. He'd messed things up that morning with his knee jerk reaction, so it made sense that showing Sherlock he was comfortable with him should help fix the bit of damage he'd done.

Sherlock was facing the wall, so as John slipped into the covers he curled up behind the taller man, much like Sherlock had done to him the previous night. A little uncertain of himself John rested one hand on the small dip between Sherlock's hip and ribs, and folded his other arm under his own pillow. John rested his head forward so the top of his head just grazed the point where neck met back, just above the collar of Sherlock's shirt, and closed his eyes. He wasn't really sure he'd be able to sleep, but at least he could relax like this.

Sherlock had been mostly asleep when he felt the bed dip down behind him, and a pleasant warmth settle against his back. A hesitant hand settled in the dip of his side, right above his hip just before a cool forehead pressed against the top of his spine. There was only one person that could touch him like that without feeling the need to shrink away from them.

"John?" He asked groggily, turning his head a bit towards the man at his back, "Everything okay?" He made no move to shift further than that. He was content to slip back into sleep if commanded by his resident doctor.

Nodding against Sherlock's neck John murmured, "O' course. Sorry for waking you, figured I'd join you for a nap before we go out for groceries." The truth was John needed the contact. Talking to Greg had caused him to question everything again. The only thing he was certain of at the moment was that he wanted things to go back to normal, or as close to normal as they could get, with Sherlock. "Don't mind me, just go back to sleep."

Sherlock yawned in response and wriggled a little until he was comfortable, then all his muscles seemed to relax at once. Long slender fingers gently laid over the calloused ones at his hip and his thumb squeezed them softly.

"One more thing before I do." His voice was whisper quiet, "I still haven't really apologized for all of this. I don't really think there is a way for me to. But, for what it's worth... I am sorry that I hurt you. You didn't deserve it, whether I had to or not." It was obvious the DI's words had struck a chord in him. He pretended to fall back into his slumber, but the detective waited awake to hear his flatmate's response. He'd go to sleep after that he promised his heavy eyelids. Right after that...

John let his hand slip forward, so he was holding the thin torso to his own. The motion forced them closer together and he rested his chin on Sherlock's shoulder. "There's no need. I know." He thought about saying that it was okay, that was what people were supposed to do right? When someone apologizes you accept the apology and and tell them everything was alright. Except everything wasn't alright, not yet, and he knew better than to offer Sherlock empty words.

He pulled away for a moment, setting an alarm on his phone. Now that his body had relaxed, and he was wrapped up in Sherlock's warmth he was sure to fall asleep as well. After setting the phone back on the small nightstand he moved back, pulling Sherlock against him and burying his face in the side of Sherlock's curls. Breathing in the smell of his own soap that Sherlock had used earlier that day.

"I set an alarm for a couple of hours, get some sleep and then we can go shopping."

Sherlock nodded sleepily. He knew things would take a while to be okay, but he felt like he could safely assume that they were progressing. He did fall asleep shortly after that thought crossed his mind.

Greg had barely made it to his squad car before another text came through.

How's John? MH

Fuck you. You bloody git, I'm not saying another word until we talk in person. 15 min.

Greg was livid. Mycroft had used him in a childish game to get back at his brother, and he wouldn't doubt it if the older Holmes had known Sherlock had been alive the whole time. He let out a growl and slapped at his steering wheel. How could the Holmes' act so nonchalant about everyone else?

Pulling away from the curb, he sped his way to the ancient looking house that belonged to him. Once there, he stormed in, causing Anthea, the older Homes' assistant to scuttle off in the direction of the kitchens. Feeling a bit dramatic, he shoved the doors open and stomped up to the desk where the man had the nerve to be watching the CCTV channels.

"What the HELL do you think you're doing? Sending me in blind like that?" His voice was gruff as he slammed his fists down on the desk in front of him.

Mycroft calmly turned his attention to the DI, "I told you. John was far too gentle with him. Someone needed to make sure he was aware that he can't simply return after three years without consequence. Honestly, if I had told you that Sherlock was back before you left, would you have attacked him the moment you saw him?" He raised his eyebrows in question as if that fully justified lying to Lestrade.

"I had expected John to show some sort of violence towards Sherlock last night, but apparently he's easier to win over than I'd anticipated. How are they faring?" His tone was conversational. As if they were discussing something ridiculously simple. Lacing his fingers together he rested his chin on his knuckles, reminiscent of the younger Holmes thinking pose.

"You know how they're faring. You watch them, and don't try to tell me you don't." He threw his hands up angrily. "I know what you're saying means sense to you, but you can't just send me in all half cocked like that. I thought John was in trouble!" He looked away from Mycroft then.

"I'm not some hound dog that you can call 'heel' and I'll be at your feet wagging my tail Mycroft..."

Mycroft's eyebrows raised at the comment, "That was not my intention Greg." He spoke softly, leaning forward over the desk a bit. "I told you he was in no immediate danger. Yes I can see them, but only in the sitting room, hardly tells me how they are handling this on an emotional level. Neither of them made it through the past three years unscathed, and I worry about them, especially John. He will protect and care for Sherlock at all costs, but my brother is not quite as capable of reciprocating the gesture."

He paused, reaching across the desk to where the DI's hands had fallen to lay his own over one. "I'm sorry I didn't give you any sort of proper warning. You must understand I did not intend upon upsetting you."

"You know I don't mind doing things like this for you, but you can't leave me in the dark. I can't just be your trained gun, act first ask later. I know the nature of your job makes it easy to keep people out of the loop, but..." he trailed off, his fingers squeezing the other man's as he looked up at him once more, "You just can't alright? Because it makes me start wondering what else you're keeping from me."

The Detective Inspector had been embarrassed when the thought had first crossed his mind, but now he felt he had more resolve. He knew there had to be a certain level of secrecy, but sometimes he wondered if he really could trust the man sitting across from him, the man he deeply cared for and probably shouldn't.

Mycrofts gaze dropped to where their fingers were intertwined, working through what Greg had said. He was not like Sherlock, he understood people and relationships in a way that dumbfounded his brother, but his ability to separate himself from those feelings seemed to cause more damage than good when it came to his own relationships.

Nodding softly he looked back up at Greg, "I'll share what I can with you. I can't promise I won't hide anything, but I'm sure you understand that. Some things are outside of even my control, but I will not purposefully leave you in the dark." It had been far too long since he'd had a real relationship before Greg had entered his life, his job simply did not make it easy to find or keep relationships. He did not want to push the detective inspector away.

"Forgive me?"

"You bloody prat, you know I can't resist you when you look at me like that." He let out an exasperated sigh and leaned over, kissing the older man's knuckles.

"Now come give me a proper snog before I change my mind"

A smile reached Mycroft's eyes, the corners of his lips just twitching as he pulled his hand from Greg's. He moved around the desk quickly so he was leaning against the front of it, forcing the DI back into the plush chair in front of his desk. Without a word he caught Greg's chin with one hand, tipping his head back against the chair as leaned in to press their lips together. The hand resting under Greg's chin slid back to cup his jaw, the other bracing against the back of the chair.

It was something that had become wonderfully natural to the elder Holmes. They had been seeing each other for the better part of a year. The two had started talking in an effort to take care of John, but the occasional text turned to phone calls, phone calls turned to dinner, and after that everything had fell into place. Anthea was the only person aware of their relationship, but it was easier that way, it wasn't as if they had many people to share it with anyways.

The kiss was deep and passionate, an added bonus to upsetting his detective inspector, and when he pulled away, to Greg's displeasure, he chuckled softly. "You brought the squad car. You left work to check on John." He wasn't asking, he had been watching the CCTV's after all. He flashed a wicked grin before placing a chaste kiss to the now swollen lips. "You should probably be going then."

"You're a right sodding tease you know that? Just for your cheek I should bring my work home with me." With a coy smirk he hurried out of the office, handcuffs clinging ominously as they dangled from his hip.

**A/N: **

We are super glad so many people are reading our fic, but we really want to hear what you think. Leave a comment with your thoughts on the chapter.

For this chapter only we will be doing a raffle for your choice of a ficlet from the two of us or a sketch from Devo, and a Promo on Shelly's tumblr. The story behind the ficlet or sketch would be up to you of course. The first ten comments on each website (Fanfiction, Adult Fanfiction, Ao3, and Deviant Art) will be entered into the drawing. So that means four winners.

We will stop taking submissions when chapter 7 is posted.


	8. Crawling

A few hours later, Sherlock woke. He wasn't sure how long he'd slept or what time it was, but John's alarm hadn't gone off yet. The light had shifted over his face and as he opened his eyes, blinking against the light, he found that at some point during his nap, he had rolled over, and was practically nose to nose with the doctor.

As he lay there he realized that John looked much younger when he slept. The worry lines were smoothed out and his brows weren't knit with pain and frustration. Sherlock felt himself drawn towards making this seemingly impossible version of John a reality.

A quick inventory told him that his hands were free, and his cool hand came to brush hair out of the doctors face, his fingertips ghosting down the side of his face. He wasn't sure what it was that was drawing him so much towards this man, but he was willing to attempt to find out.

Groggy with sleep, John pressed into the light touch on his face. It was soft, and comforting, and as far as he could tell he was dreaming, but that was fine by him. Snuggling closer to the body heat he let out a small contented sigh.

Sherlock felt a warm smile cross his face as John snuggled closer to him. The thought that he was comfortable enough to be so at ease was a heady sort of realization that he could easily become addicted to. He tipped his head forward and pressed his forehead against John's, breathing in deeply, relishing in the scents of John's shampoo, soap, deodorant and natural musk individually.

Sighing contentedly, he told himself that he would move away in a moment so as not to frighten him, in just another moment, he was too comfortable now. He would move... Just one more.. And he fell asleep once more, relishing in the utter bliss coursing through his veins.

The loud obnoxious ring of the alarm caused John to jolt awake, an old habit that had not died. After the sudden start though he relaxed, reminding himself that the warmth and excess limbs were Sherlock's that they had been there when he had fallen asleep. He didn't want a repeat of the morning. Slowly John gathered his senses and opened his eyes to turn off the still ringing alarm.

Upon seeing Sherlock's face so close to his own he started slightly, before pulling away enough to grab his phone from behind his head. Turning the alarm off he lied back down on his back, so he wasn't quite as close to Sherlock, but the long arms which had been wrapped around him were still splayed across his own torso. Rolling his head to the right he looked at Sherlock, hoping he hadn't noticed how jumpy he had been, "How'd you sleep?"

John was surprisingly comfortable how they were at the moment, and made no effort to put more space between them. In fact, rather out of comfort or instinct, he wasn't sure, he moved one of his arms so it was lying across his torso, lined up with Sherlock's so they just touched.

The Detective had woke with the alarm as well, but the jumps did not worry him as they had before, and the small touch of their arms gave him the reassurance he needed. His arms snuck around the man's abdomen just enough to hook his fingers on the opposite side, and buried his face into John's shoulder, successfully blocking out the bright light. He groaned softly and pulled his knees up a little.

"Not near enough, but good for the amount of time I had." he said, "You?" He began stretching every muscle individually as he woke up more. "Hopefully just as well, I know you're not one for afternoon naps very often."

John felt oddly comfortable as Sherlock pulled him closer, and a blush crept into his cheeks as the younger mans curly hair brushed against his neck. Trying not to focus on his bodies reaction to the contact John moved his own arm to stretch, pulling them apart in a natural way.

"Really well actually, surprising how easy it is to sleep with you here." John had never been one for naps in the past, but it had been years since he had slept through the night without a nightmare. It turned out his body was in need of restful sleep.

As he glanced over at Sherlock he felt a nervous flutter, and anxiety fell over his chest. He knew what he was feeling. It was something he had suppressed a long time ago, shortly after meeting Sherlock. At the time Sherlock had made it clear that he had zero interest in relationships, and John was fine with that. He was straight, right? His mouth felt dry and he tried to shake away the thoughts. "Shopping?" He didn't quite trust himself to form full coherent sentences just yet.

If Sherlock had been looking, he would have been able to recognize that something was wrong, however he was still tucked into the blankets and too comfy to be deducting. "That's good." he murmured before sitting up finally, his curls sticking up in odd angles. When he sat up, the detective's head swam, and he pressed cool fingertips to his temple in an attempt to ward off the dizziness.

"Right... shopping.. how tedious." he said distractedly. "I suppose it's better than sitting around here bored all day." With a sigh he flopped forward onto the bed and stayed there, his arms splayed out beside him. He really didn't want to get out of bed, but he knew shopping with John, as boring as it might sound, might end up being a better idea than he thought.

Rolling from the bed John stopped for a moment with his feet just touching the ground. "Alright, budge up then." He gave the man a small playful shove as he got out of the bed. Glancing around the room he realized all the negative connotation had fled over the previous day, in fact he felt a new warmth being in the room.

"I'm gonna go get dressed, just be a moment." Standing he moved to leave the room,but as an idea struck him he hesitated in the doorway. "Uhm, want to go to Angelo's tonight? I mean he'd be pleased to see you, he's sort of daft so he'll probably eat up whatever story we tell him. Might be nice to get out? I'm sure there's something safe we can find for you to eat there." John kept one hand on the door frame, his bottom lip drawn between his teeth as he waited for a response. He wasn't even sure which answer would be more of a relief at this point.

Sitting up, the man swung his legs over the side of the bed and waited a moment before standing. He had moved to his closet by the time John posed his stopped in the middle of unbuttoning his shirt to turn and look at the doctor. His lip was captured by a row of neat white teeth, and he looked nervous studied him very hard for a moment, contemplating what John wanted his answer to be, as well as what he himself wanted to answer with.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity he answered, "That sounds good. I have sorely missed his food and company." He turned back to the closet and pulled out his suit coat and another, white shirt. This one was not wrinkled like the one he had been sleeping in. However, even after he answered, the nervous atmosphere stayed, so he teased the doctor in his usual way, totally dead panned.

"Are you going to go get dressed or are you going to stand there and gawk at me while I change?" His tone was obviously playful, but he delivered it with such a straight face, he knew that look of confusion would cross John's features that made his eyebrows draw down and his lips purse in a silent add to it, he started unbuttoning the rest of his shirt.

The doctor's mouth fell open in shock at Sherlock's comment. He stammered for a moment as a crimson blush spread across his cheeks. Then of course came the promised look of confusion, but this confusion was directed more at himself than anything else, why was he embarrassed? All of these emotions flitted across his features in a matter of moments and then, without any sort of explanation, he took from the room, rather quickly.

His fast paced walk did not stop until he was leaning against the back of his closed door. What the hell was that Watson? His mind raced, he could not believe this was happening to him of all people. God dammit, he thought to bitterly to himself. Sherlock needed him. He was sick and tired and he had come back to John for help, but John was what, having an existential crises?

Sherlock was a bloke, he should not be swooning over the man, the thought sent his mind reeling. But John hadn't been in a proper emotional relationship for far too long, even before Sherlock had left all of his relationships were a half-hearted gesture. The other half of his heart, of course, had been at the beck and call of the detective. So the fact that he was actually feeling this on such an emotional level was as appealing as it was disconcerting.

After going through a series of motions quite suited to his current state of mind, pulling at his hair, rubbing a nervous hand across his face, cursing silently under his breath, he settled on getting dressed. He pulled on a comfortable jumper and denim trousers quickly, and hurried back to the shared sitting room. Whatever was happening, John knew he needed to control his emotions better. The last thing he wanted was Sherlock to deduce his latest actions, mostly because the doctor wasn't sure he wanted to hear it.

Sherlock had been puzzled by the blush that had swept over John's face. What exactly did that mean? He had several theories, but none of which were actually worth the time it took to examine them. In some things, Sherlock could observe everything he needed to know about the doctor from a quick glance, but lately he'd become more puzzled than anything else by him. It was both infuriating and refreshing.

He had quickly changed his clothes, and by the time John returned, he was pulling on his coat and wrapping a scarf around his neck.

"You certainly took long enough." He grumped, running long fingers through his tousled curls to make them a little more presentable, "Let's proceed with this bore..." He held up John's black jacket that he had snatched from the peg, holding it up so John could slip his arms through the sleeves .

Carefully averting his eyes John slipped into his arms into the coat, forcing himself to ignore Sherlock's hands on his shoulders as he pressed into the garment. "In a rush now are we?" He knew Sherlock was simply being impatient as always, even if he was less than excited for the destination he did not want to waste time. If anything he was hoping to return home sooner.

Once tucked into his coat John grabbed his keys and wallet from the desk and snatched his cane from where it had been left the night before. It was then that he remembered what had transpired between Sherlock and Lestrade before their impromptu nap. As he made his way down stairs he called back to Sherlock.

"So what were you on about with Lestrade? You have something against him being with a bloke? I mean I'm assuming you were right about that, he didn't really argue, but you looked like you were ready to tear back into him." John was at the bottom of the stairs opening the door that led to the street by the time he'd finished expressing his question.

Sherlock started to respond, but held his tongue for a moment. He hadn't even thought about why he'd been so volatile towards the Detective Inspector earlier, it was obviously out of character since John was pointing it out. He had felt a spike of emotion when he'd seen the way that Greg had touched and been so close to John. It made him think of all the things the DI had done for the blonde while he'd been away. Had it been Greg that he'd run to with his problems since Sherlock wasn't around? Had he cried on the man's shoulder over Sherlock's death? He knew Lestrade was seeing another man, and that thought didn't bother him alone. It was the thought that he had homosexual tendencies and felt so close to his flatmate that made him furious. Sherlock told himself that it was just because he didn't want his friend, John "I'm not gay" Watson to feel uncomfortable, but that wasn't the sole reason.

"He did punch me John..." he said softly as he followed the shorter man out the door, "I have no problem with his sexual tendencies, I was merely aggravated by the previous confrontation..." His answer seemed distracted as he internally turned over the situation and scrutinized it thoroughly. He had never come across an action of his or a piece of himself that he didn't fully understand, but this new found protectiveness of John was mind boggling. As he followed the doctor, he tucked his hands into the pockets of his coat, brows furrowed in deep thought.

Was this jealousy? Was he jealous that Lestrade had been able to get so close to John while he had been away? Or was it merely guilt that he had put his friend in that situation to begin with. He shook his head, deciding that he would think more on it later when John could not openly observe his features and surmise his thought process. Perhaps while the older man was sleeping tonight, he would be able to focus better and examine these newfound emotional responses.

John nodded as he locked the door of 221B behind them. He wasn't totally convinced as he watched Sherlock's body language, he was definitely bothered. Yes, Lestrade had punched him, but at the time Sherlock thought he deserved it. It wasn't until he made the deduction regarding the detective inspectors sexuality that he'd lost his temper. It was probably best he didn't ask about the topic any more, maybe John really didn't want to know the answer.

"Well hopefully you didn't piss him off too bad. God knows you need a case." The blonde shot Sherlock a wry smile, attempting to lighten the mood as they set off down the street to the corner shop.

"Are you suggesting that I'm starting to become hard to live with? Complaining already? I've only been back a day. If I would have known it would be like this I might not have come back at all..." He was joking of course, and he cut his eyes at the shorter man to make sure he realized that as they fell in step together.

"Oh please," John muttered, "I'm just preparing for when you aren't so apt to sleeping all day." Sure Sherlock was contented at the moment, but John was sure by the end of the week the detective would be climbing the walls with boredom, or shooting them.

The shop was just around the corner, not too long of a walk, and basically a waste of a fare to take a cabbie. In hindsight it may not have been the best plan, considering Sherlock was still dead. Luckily the path that led them to the shop was rather barren, and Sherlock's story was old enough that people weren't still looking for him around every corner. .

"So what all do we need to buy at the grocery?" Sherlock moved so that they were walking side by side, him a half step behind the doctor so that his elbow was slightly behind the man so that they were still close, even as they walked.

"Uhm," John scratched the back of his head nervously, "We have half a loaf of bread, tea, milk and biscuits." Giving Sherlock a sideways apologetic glance John shrugged, "So a little of everything." Eating had definitely been on the back burner during the absence of his detective. It wasn't something John was proud of, and in all honesty it seemed insane now that things were going back to normal.

His eyes narrowed as he looked down at the doctor. "And you talk to me about eating?" He frowned at John and turned, opening the door to the corner store, he ushered John in ahead of him.

"Save it." The blonde muttered as he brushed past Sherlock and into the store

"Okay so... I'm assuming we'll need food to make meals for the week..." Sherlock felt very out of his element. He'd never gone food shopping before. Not even on his own. He rarely ate, and usually had a flatmate to do the shopping even if they hadn't stayed around very long.

He stopped at the front of the store and looked around, feeling a little cold. He felt so out of place... and it felt a little odd doing something so mundane with John. It really made it feel like nothing had happened over the past few years, though the tenderness in his side disproved that. A headache pierced through his skull and with a wince, he reached out for John to ground himself, his fingers clawing at air until he felt the roughness of the doctor's coat beneath his fingers. Calm instantly flooding his body and he drew closer to the man as they stepped further into the store.

Feeling the tug on his coat sleeve John looked up to see a nervous looking Sherlock hovering over his shoulder. Placing his opposite hand over the one gripping his coat John spoke softly, quiet enough that the words would only be heard by the tall brunette.

"It's alright Sh'lock," his hushed tone caused him to slur his name, and John found he sort of liked how it sounded. Grabbing two baskets he held one out to Sherlock, and continued talking, not quite as intimately. "I can handle a little grocer, you just stick with me." Then to John's own surprise he winked at Sherlock and began moving toward the produce.

The detective had rolled his eyes at the comment, but the wink surprised him. He stood for a moment, almost stupefied before mentally kicking himself and taking a few long strides to catch up to the smaller man. Their shopping didn't take long, and Sherlock actually had fun peering at items over the soldier's shoulder. The grocer had looked at them oddly, and Sherlock knew he probably looked menacing behind the smaller man in his dark coat and surly expression. But when they left, shopping bags in hand, he was glad he had come with the man instead of staying in.

"At least you didn't get in a fight with a chip and pin machine this time..." his smirk was devilish when he glanced at the blonde, "Maybe I'm good luck for you." He had the plastic bags tucked in the crook of his elbow as he walked along side his flatmate. All in all, the trip to the grocery had been a good experience, and Sherlock knew he was better for it. However, the experience was steadily being ruined as his hands started to shake, normally this would be the time he would take some of his pills, but he was adamant on progression rather than regression. He frowned, and his expression turned a little sullen as he tried to find something else to focus on rather than the craving rolling through his body.

Shaking his head and adjusting the bags on his arm John sighed, "I'm never gonna live that one down am I?" Chuckling softly at the memory he stole a glance at the brunette who appeared to be brewing over something. The sight halted the good natured laugh. Everything had seemed fine while they were shopping, in fact Sherlock had seemed rather amused by the domesticity of the entire process. He had leaned curiously over John's shoulder most of the trip, not that John minded the attention.

Working to keep his voice light John quipped, "Oh come on, it wasn't that bad. I mean it wasn't chasing suspects across the London skyline, but what'd you expect?" His strides slowed as he watched Sherlock closely, something was off.

"Hmmm?" he said, he hadn't really been paying attention, which was not like himself at all. "I'm sorry what did you say?" He turned to look at the smaller man, his eyes still a little far off. "I was... thinking of something else... Sorry..." He cleared his throat and bit the inside of his cheeks trying to fight the wave of need that seemed to insist on crashing over him. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to tell John what was going on or not. He had come to the man for help, but he knew John did not react well when faced with his drug problems. He decided he would try to play it off unless John made a big deal out of it.

Stopping quickly John pulled Sherlock by his cuff so they were facing each. He studied Sherlock's eyes for a moment, it wasn't like Sherlock to daze off like that. He could go on talking for ages, not noticing if anyone was listening, but he didn't just disappear like that in the middle of a conversation. Not for no reason, and not with that lost and dazed expression.

Johns mouth quirked to the side in worry, he could see Sherlock was shaking, his eyes were glazed over and he was practically radiating his desperation. "Sherlock." He started carefully, putting a hand under his encumbered elbow. "You with me?"

John had been happy to play along while Sherlock was doing well, it was easy to pretend that nothing was wrong. But that wasn't quite true, the image of those damaged arms was burned into his memory, so deep down John knew that this was inevitable to some degree or another. He was a doctor, Sherlocks doctor, so he would do everything in his power to aid him in the road to recovery. It didn't mean he liked it.

He was spun quickly and efficiently to the side to face John, and he found himself looking down into a pair of worried eyes. His brows knit together before he forced his face to relax. The hand on his elbow helped to ground him. He took a breath, and let it out before he spoke.

"Yeah. I'm here now." he said softly, "Let's get home, it's getting rather chilly out, I think it might rain later." He inclined his head and turned, begging John to at least let it go until they got home. He didn't want to hash out his addiction and the side effects of it here on the street. Especially since he was supposed to be keeping a low profile.

"Come on..." he ushered again, and began walking once more, headed in the direction of 221B.

Giving Sherlock a short nod and keeping a hand tucked under his elbow John led them both. He didn't move his hand away until he was unlocking the front door and ushering Sherlock up the stairs.


	9. Want

Once in the flat John tried to busy himself by putting the groceries away. There was only so much he could do for Sherlock, other than be here for him. At least they were back in the flat where he didn't have to worry quite as much about the man's well being, just his sanity.

Chancing a glance in Sherlocks direction John forced himself to keep his voice light. "You alright then?"

The brunette had followed John up the stairs, and placed the groceries on the island. Now he stood with his back to the counter, a hand pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Yes yes..." He hesitated for a moment and splayed his fingers across his eyes and nose. "It's just very... Hard..." He hated himself for having to admit it, by he knew it needed to be done. He couldn't bear to look at John, see the condescension in his eyes. His drug habit was becoming hard to ignore, and he felt like a time bomb ticking away drawing ever nearer to the explosion he knew was inevitable. John knew it too, he could tell.

Pausing at Sherlocks words, John set down the fruit he was sifting through to move around the counter so he was standing in front of the other. The torment Sherlock was going through was written painfully across his features, the sight of it dug at John's very being.

Sherlock had come to him, he wanted help, the addiction was eating at him, and in turn, eating at John as well. Gingerly John wrapped his own fingers around the pale, bony wrists of the detective, urging his hand down away from his face so he could see the crystalline eyes staring at him.

John fixed him with a solid gaze. There wasn't pity, Sherlock had done this to himself, but there was support and a sort of adoration in the way he studied his reactions. Most of all there was concern. Sherlock had to overcome this, John needed him to overcome this.

After a long pensive moment John spoke softly. "I'm here Sherlock. I'm here with you. You've gone through withdrawal before right? Tell me what you need, we'll get through this." It was no secret that this wasn't Sherlocks first run in with addictions, maybe to this extent, but he'd recovered before, he could do it again. John had to believe he could do it again.

Sherlock clenched his hands into fists and slid down the counter to sit on the floor. He propped his elbows on his knees, and pressed the heels of his hands against his temples as the tremors began to shake him a little harder. He reared up a fist and slammed it back against one of the cabinet doors.

"I don't know what I need dammit..." he said finally looking up, his eyes red and pupils dilated, "I know what I want... I... I just..." he was having trouble breathing now, and his heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest. His skin felt clammy and all he knew was that he wanted John.

"Please, can you help me to the bed... I just need to curl up... my stomach..." he had moved one arm to grip tight around his abdomen, bent to try and cure the angry pains pulsing in his body. "Lay with me? Or Sit with me... I don't care... just don't leave me." It came out sounding like more than a beg than Sherlock really wanted it to, but at the moment, he let it pass.

There was no mistaking the symptoms, not for Doctor Watson. Sherlock was suffering from withdrawal, from what all John couldn't be sure, but the Opium withdrawal seemed to be the main culprit at this point as the man on the floor gripped at his stomach. There was, of course, ways John could ease Sherlock's pain using low doses of specific opium's, to ease him down.

There was two things preventing him from doing this. One was the fact that he'd need to get Sherlock to agree to going and staying at the surgery or hospital, and that wasn't likely to happen. The other problem was that Sherlock was coming down from so many different drugs there was no way for John to combat them all, and he couldn't be sure that by treating one addiction he'd hamper another.

Stooping to wrap an arm around Sherlock's shaking form John heaved the crumbling man to his feet. Guiding them toward Sherlock's bedroom, thankful that it wasn't upstairs like his own, John murmured, "Of course Sherlock, I'm not going to leave you."

Within a few minutes he had Sherlock out of his coat, and was tucking him into the bed, wrapping the heavy duvet cover around the shaking pale form. "Just relax, it'll be alright. I'll be right back Sherlock," John spoke clearly with one hand resting on Sherlock's clothed shoulder, hoping he was listening so he didn't become upset when John left the room.

Sherlock couldn't do much more than lean on John as the man halfway carried him into his room. The trembles started to get worse and he felt like he had just taken an ice bath. As he lay down, his stomach cramped again, and he let out a small noise of pain, unable to hold it in due to all the other things happening to him. The duvet was wrapped around him, and the thought that John was tucking him in flitted across his mind amidst all the other thoughts whizzing through his brain. Suddenly, he felt the bed recompress as John got up from the mattress. A pale hand shot out from under the duvet, grabbing hold of the man's wrist, eyes begging him not to go.

"I'm not leaving I promise." Giving the thin shoulder a light grip John hurried from the room.

He let go without much of a fuss and curled in tighter on himself, hoping John was telling the truth. His mind was not working at full capacity, and he felt muddled. Withdrawal was always the worst for him because it took away the clarity that he started using to achieve.

Once in the kitchen John quickly finished the groceries, putting the perishables away and leaving the rest for later. Then, filling a large glass with ice water for Sherlock and snatching his novel from the side of his armchair, he stole back down the hall.

"Sherlock?" John called out as he entered the room, knocking on the door way for good measure, not wanting to startle Sherlock in his current state.

The trembling man wasn't sure how long the doctor had been gone, but it had felt like an eternity. "John?" he called weakly, one trembling hand finding it's way out of the tangle of duvet to reach out to the man. Sherlock wanted the pain to stop. He wanted his heart to quit beating itself against his ribcage, and he wished his lungs would open up. He felt like he'd been chasing a criminal through London and couldn't calm down.

"John..." he croaked out again. The doctor could offer him some relief, if only it was to ground him. He felt like he was floating, falling, and any second he might crash back to the world.

Slipping off his own coat and shoes and dropping them in a heap on the floor, he moved to the side of the bed where Sherlock was so desperately reaching out to the doctor. He put the book and drink on the side table before taking a seat on the edge of the bed within reach of the man falling to pieces before his eyes. It was a dreadful sight for John to take in.

"Shh, relax Sherlock," The words slipped from his mouth, an attempt to soothe and ground Sherlock. Tentatively he pushed the now damp curls from his pale forehead. With a sigh John pulled himself back along the bed so he was using the wall as backrest. Stealing a pillow he stuffed it between himself and the wall before drawing the quivering man to him. One arm rest lightly over Sherlock's back with the young man curled, half way in John's lap, his face resting gently on John's chest.

There was nothing John could do at this point, save for comfort Sherlock through the waves of withdrawal. Not knowing what else to do other than offer comfort, John raked his hand through the damp curls. Muttering to him softly he waited for Sherlock to find a grasp on reality.

The moment Sherlock felt himself pulled into John's arms, he knew that no matter what he felt like, no matter how bad the pain seemed or how visible the tremors were, he knew that he was not going to fall as long as John Watson had a hold of him. One arm was around John's waist as his face was pillowed by the gentle rise and fall of the doctor's chest as he breathed. His arm squeezed tight for a moment, just a firm reassurance that John was there and curled his head downwards. He could get through this. With John he could do anything. Hadn't they proved that time and time again?

Closing his eyes as the tremors continued to wrack his body and the pain in his stomach and limbs continued, he tried to focus on the feeling of John's form beneath him, taking great pains to breathe in his scent with shaking lungs.

John had spent the better part of an hour in a futile attempt to calm the tremors with gentle words and feeble gestures, but as with many things in life, the throws of addictions are not so easily overcome. By the end of the first hour Sherlock's clothes were soaked through with sweat, and John's book lay forgotten. He wasn't even sure why he had grabbed the novel in the first place. A part of him thought Sherlock would lie weary and exhausted, that his presence might be enough and he could simply spend the early afternoon reading contentedly. This of course was not the case.

After it became apparent that his attempts were doing nothing to halt the violent actions John focused on trying to make Sherlock comfortable. Help him ride it out. His body would have to relax at some point, and when that happened his doctor would be here to help him recover, mentally and physically.

It got worse before it got better. So many different horrid sensations raged through the detective, that he thought he just might have offed himself if John hadn't been there. At one point every nerve in his body felt like a searing hot knife had been stabbed into it. He'd stopped crying out, as it only made the pain worse,and his fingers gripped the material of John's shirt as he lay there whimpering pathetically.

As time rolled on John felt hands clasping onto his own clothing, desperately, the once mangled cries now dying down. Leaning his head back against the wall, trying not to think about how much pain Sherlock was actually in John continued on with sort comforting touches, one arm wrapped tightly around Sherlock's thin waist to keep him from rolling away.

Finally after a few hours, the tremblings dissipated, and Sherlock lay breathing heavily against John's neck. He had tipped his head back some time ago, in pain, and through his withdrawal, he hadn't noticed that his face lay across the man's shoulder now. He was sure he had sweat all over John, and the fact that the man had laid there with him, taking care of him the whole time made him start to feel a warmth down in his clammy stomach.

"I..." he croaked, his deep voice deeper with the exhaustion he'd put it through. He swallowed to wet the dry walls of his esophagus and tried once more, "I think the worst of it has gone..." it was barely more than a whisper through his abused throat.

John's head snapped up upon hear Sherlock speak coherently. His hair was all but soaked down to his scalp and he looked utterly exhausted, John barely noticed the fact that half of his jumper was damp from Sherlock's body lying on him. Reaching across to the nightstand he sat Sherlock up. "Here, sip on this. You need to drink something." The ice had long since melted, but all he needed was Sherlock to become dehydrated on top of everything else.

The worst part about this whole ordeal wasn't hearing Sherlock cry out in pain as he tore at the pain that racked his body. Nor was it when the man had become so tired that he didn't even bother crying out. The worst part for John was the fact that he knew this was not going to be the last ordeal. Yes Sherlock had gotten over addictions before, but as far as John knew the detective had never been this far gone.

Sherlock took the cup he was given and took small sips at first and worked his way up to large gulps. He felt like he was parched, and with the amount of sweat he'd put out, he wouldn't have been surprised. He ran a pale hand through his wet curls, pulling them away from where they had been plastered to his face and neck. Glancing at the clock to check the time, he saw that he had been laying on John for almost three and a half hours.

Turning back, he looked at his flatmate appreciatively, a hint of a smile attempting to curl the corners of his lips, tired but content. "You stayed.." He said softly. His tone was very grateful.

"Of course." John muttered, his eyes dropping slightly, surprised by the warm tone Sherlock was employing.

"I think I'm going to go take a shower... And I wouldn't doubt you would want one too. If we hurry..." He stood then, a little wobbly, but he kept his feet under him, "we can still make it to Angelo's before the dinner rush..." He carefully stretched his arms and shoulders before moving to his dresser to pull out some fresh clothes. He was going through a lot of them... He'd have to take them to the cleaners soon. The detective desperately tried not to think about the way his muscles were trembling from being locked up in pain for the past three hours. He had made plans to go to Angelo's with the doctor and he was not about to change that. He would be damned if he let his addiction rule his life any more than he had to.

Unraveling himself from the sheets John followed, his eyebrows raise in surprise as Sherlock swayed on his feet, "Seriously? I mean, yeah we both desperately need a shower, but we can just have a night in, Sherlock you need to recuperate." He was surprised at how quickly his flatmate had jumped from the bed given his current state, and he hardly seemed steady on his feet. John eyed Sherlock carefully, like he was afraid he might keel over at any moment. "You should really take things slow."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and moved to the door, a little more sure of his footing now. "Honestly John. I feel much better now.. Life is not going to wait for me to take things slow. Any moment my organs could rupture and fail due to my bad decisions or for any reason at all. I will be alright. Generally I only have one bad fit, the tremors may return, but if I don't exert myself too much, I should be fine.. Now I am going to go take a shower. If you will strip the bed i'll make it up with fresh linens while you are showering." He retrieved the desired clothing from the chest and was out the door, on his way down the hall to the shower.

John stood surprised for a moment, and then with a shake of his head he went ahead and stripped the bed of the damn sheets. He wanted to insist that Sherlock stay home and rest, but in all honesty a bored Sherlock was probably a worse risk to both of their sanity and safety. Not to mention John had been looking forward to the dinner. Angelo's was where they had started, where they had had their first stake out, and somehow, John thought, going back to that place might help make things right.

Tossing the dirty sheets into a hamper John made his way to his own now unused room to find a fresh pair of clothes. The good doctor found himself going back and forth on which jumper to wear. It was a fresh start, he told himself, and the first time they would be going out where people might see that Sherlock was alive. That was plenty enough of a reason for John to want to look nice, right? Picking a deep blue jumper and dark denim trousers John hurried from the room, Sherlock was surely finished with his shower by now.

Sherlock had taken a quick shower, washing his hair and body without much thought, and rooted the medicine cabinet for a bottle of paracetamol. Without John to observe him, he didn't attempt to stop the tremors. Pills rattled in the bottle as he dumped four into his hand, and he set them on the counter to keep from spilling them. Sherlock tossed them back without water and looked at himself in the mirror. There was no need for the doctor to know just how bad he was was there? Worrying him unnecessarily would result in another boring evening in the flat in which he would probably just fall asleep, and he'd already had more than he cared of a bed for at least a few hours.

The detective brushed his hair out of his eyes and decided to down two more of the paracetamol and stow a few in his pocket in case things got worse over the course of the evening. As he exited the bathroom he was much too flushed to dress in more than his dress slacks until he'd had a moment to cool off.

John was still in his room when Sherlock peeked his head around the door, and he hurried to his room, carrying his shirt and jacket. He set them on the desk before moving to his closet and pulling out his navy silk sheets. Normally he saved these for the summer when the weather was warmer, but if John were to continue to sleep with him he didn't see staying warm being a problem. He started making up the bed, tucking the sheets under then pulling a heavy quilt from the chest at the foot if his bed up and over.

John had just popped his head around the corner of the door frame as Sherlock began to dig through the chest, and John caught an unencumbered view of his pale back. A hand rose to cover his mouth silently, was this what Sherlock had been hiding when he'd asked for privacy the night before when he had been changing? He had never been shy about baring his body before, and now the doctor's suspicions that there was still more the detective was hiding from him were confirmed. A long scar stretched down his spine, and another deeper wrapped around disappearing at his rib cage. John backed from the room and into the bathroom without a sound, slipping to the ground once safe behind the door.

Sherlock, still dazed from his earlier ordeal didn't notice the event. He tucked the quilt in just as he had the sheets before replacing the pillow cases. After he finished he took a step back to admire his handiwork. That would do he supposed. He frowned and looked around for his shoes, finding them tucked under the bed on the closet side, he bent to retrieve them, and sat on the bed to put them on before finally moving to don his button up shirt and suit coat. He hissed slightly as the material moved over his arms but shook it off as he began to button it from waistline to his chest, leaving the top two undone as per usual.

John was holding his phone uncertainly. His first thought, after fleeing for the sanctity of the bathroom, had been to call Mycroft and demand he start explaining, but something was stopping him. It was the same reason he hadn't said anything in the room. Sherlock had hid this for a reason, the same reason he wouldn't tell him about his time away John could only assume. Locking his phone and stuffing it in his pocket John's mind began reeling with horrifying images to explain the scars. Panic coursed through the doctor as he tried to shake the realization that someone had done that to Sherlock.

What had Sherlock been through?

The shower that followed was fast, a matter of necessity. Dressing quickly he hurried to Sherlock's room, his mind still trying to decide how he could convince Sherlock to explain what had happened to cause those marks, or if he should push the detective for information at all. The images were eating at John, but he stood in the doorway casually, a small natural smile plastered upon his face. "Ready?"

"Almost..." Sherlock swept his coat and scarf up off the floor where they had been tossed in haste, and shrugged into the stiff material, wrapping the scarf around his neck in the process. A quick toss of his head sent his curls flying, giving them a tousled look as he pulled on his gloves.

When he turned to John, he could tell there was something wrong, but he couldn't quite pinpoint what. He wanted to ask, but decided to wait for a little bit, perhaps it was nothing after all.

"Alright let's go, we'll take a taxi, and it's on me." He smiled warmly as he touched John's shoulder, leading him out of the room and down the steps. He wondered vaguely where Mrs. Hudson was, he hadn't seen her since he'd come back. She must be on vacation with her sister or on another one of those overnight bingo trips.

Before John could try and formulate any sort of real question he was whisked out to the street by the Consulting Detective. And as John snuck a second look while Sherlock hailed down a cab he couldn't help but think that he saw it. It might have been the look in his eyes that revealed he was deep at thought, or it might have simply been seeing him clean and crisp in his coat, scarf and gloves. Whatever it was, as Sherlock led him out onto the busy streets of London he couldn't help but smile. His Sherlock was still there, it'd just take some time to find him.

His Sherlock? Sliding into the cab next to Sherlock, who had already given the direction, John tried to backtrack that thought. Sherlock had been his friend, he wanted his friend back, completely. That made sense, right? John studied him for a moment wishing he had the ability to see what was hidden just beneath the surface. "You sure you're up for this?" He gave Sherlock an earnest look, wanting him to take the out if he really needed it, but secretly praying he didn't.

Sherlock didn't answer. He didn't think he needed to. John knew he didn't do anything unless he absolutely wanted to unless forced by the powers of the cosmos. He looked out the window for a bit before finally turning back to his friend. The blonde looked stressed. He knew he was the cause of it, and he very much wanted things to be alright between them, to be... As they used to.

Even though John's smile was larger and easier now, he still looked like something was bothering him. "What were you thinking about earlier?" He asked, avoiding John's question. His eyes focused and intense on the doctor's as if he could pull the information from their depths. "Earlier, before we left the flat." He clarified, knowing John wouldn't have followed his internal monologue.

John's facade faltered for a moment, he let his smile slip and the worry show. He hadn't meant for the slip to happen, but once it had there was no denying that something was wrong. Thinking carefully John sidestepped the actual issue, "Still wondering what you've been up to the past three years. It's like when you're a kid and they tell you not do something. It's all you can do."

John kept his gaze unfaltering, not wanting Sherlock to see how worried he really was for the man. "I know you won't tell me. Patience is a virtue right? Or some bloody nonsense? It's fine, It'll drive me mad until I know, but it's fine." With a small shrug he gave Sherlock a half-smile that said he really wasn't going to bother him about it.

"So anything else you missed while you were away? I'm sure the morgue has a few subjects available if you want to go their next," John laughed heartily as he watched out the window, his eyes no longer catching Sherlock's every emotion.

The comment took him by surprise and Sherlock actually laughed. "I think we should limit this to murder cases and Angelo's. I'm not sure I could handle all the excitement." He smiled warmly, but after a beat his expression changed. It became wistful, and a little pained.

"As far as the other. I know you're curious. I just... I want to put that conversation off as long as I can to be honest." He turned to look at John then, and that raw expression was back, like he was baring his soul for John as he reached forward, his fingers curling over the other man's hand.

"It's both hard for me to stomach, and to imagine myself telling you.. I know your reaction will be less than positive, and although negatives have been hovering over our heads since I returned there is a sort of brittle calm between us. After the past three years, I think we both deserve to cherish a little of that first. Also we have an entire genocide of skeletons before us to examine before we go opening locked closets for more..." His brows drew down in concern.

"I promise I will tell you when the time is right. Promise me you will try no to focus on what I'm not telling you, and instead focus on the here and now?" He smiled brokenly before squeezing John's hand one more time, and pulling away to gaze out the window once more. They must be drawing close to Angelo's now.

As Sherlock's gaze drifted back towards the window John's fell to his hand, which suddenly felt empty. When had he started craving that intimacy with Sherlock? He nodded mutely, quite certain his answer would be seen out of the corner of the detectives eyes. It was difficult to focus on the here and now. Focusing on here and now meant focusing on whatever wasn't going on between him and Sherlock.

John realized though, Sherlock was right. They had so many problems that they needed to work through, so many bridges to rebuild, they didn't need to cause any more hurt to each other. John just hoped the younger man wasn't holding on to something painful for John's sake. Promising himself that he would check with Mycroft, make sure whatever it was that he was hiding, that it wasn't hurting Sherlock. Mycroft constantly worried about his little brother. He would tell John everything he needed to know, nothing more nothing less. John could count on that much.

There was barely enough time for John to really think about anything that was going on between him and Sherlock before the cabbie was pulling up to Angelo's.

Sherlock opened the door, and held it for the doctor. Once they had both exited the taxi, the detective paid the cabbie and sent him on his way before turning back.

"Shall we?" he asked holding his hand out for John to precede him. He did however open the door for the other as they entered. He smiled as a hand came down to push softly against his lower back as he passed by, feeling the need for the contact, not really knowing where it came from, and not caring to chase after the answer either.

The constant contact from Sherlock was becoming normal, to the extent that John understood on some level that the younger man needed the physical reminder that they were together again. All the same the gentle reminders sent chills up John's spine, and when they stopped inside the crowded restaurant John had to remind himself not to lean back into the lanky body behind him.

"JOHN WATSON!" Billowed a bright voice, "I haven't seen you in ages! Any table you want! How have you been?!" the big man shook John's hand vigorously, "You and your date will eat fr-" The man looked up to see just who John's 'date' was. His eyes went wide and his mouth fell open in a silent cry.

"Bless my beard!" he bellowed, "Sherlock Holmes!" he was ecstatic. "Here here!" he seated them at the table they had occupied on their first case, and Sherlock didn't miss the irony. "I'll get you a candle!" and the man lumbered off to get it for them.

"After you." Sherlock said, his smile wide and real for the first time since returning from the grocery that afternoon.

Shaking his head John dropped into the seat, "Exactly the same," he mumbled softly, even down to the candle. But oh how things had changed since the first time they had visited Angelo's. It was becoming undeniable, a part of John was falling for Sherlock. John quickly pushed the thoughts away. They were supposed to be repairing their friendship, this was not a date. He repeated the mantra to himself in his head a few times before looking up at Sherlock, a bit more relaxed. "Well that was easy, he didn't seem bothered in the least that you were, ya know, dead." John laughed softly, he knew Angelo was a bit daft, but this was rather amusing.

"Some people aren't as worried about me as you are John. Although Angelo cares for me and respects me, he knows that if I died, and then one day I showed up unharmed... he'd know I had a reason." He spared a glance at John for a moment, sliding into the booth beside him before Angelo made his way back over to their table. He handed both men a menu and set a white candle on their table. The big man gave them a thumbs up and left them to their conversation.

"This brings back some good memories..." Sherlock commented, remembering their conversation in the same spots they were now. He didn't even bother looking at the menu. He knew it well. "I thought about this place often while I was gone..."he said softly, as if he hadn't really meant to say it out loud.

Smiling into his menu John feigned as though he wasn't sure what to order. He always got the same thing of course, but out of habit he scanned the choices diligently. After a few moments John spoke softly, "I came here a lot, after everything. I couldn't stand cooking for myself, so if I really wanted to eat I'd come back here. Angelo was always very kind. Probably why he was so excited, I haven't been by in months." His eyes didn't leave the menu as he spoke, but he had been staring at the same item since he had started the confession. He wasn't sure why he was telling Sherlock, but he wanted something's out in the open, even if they had to be Johns skeletons.

His heart wrenched hearing that. He knew of John's habit of not eating when he got depressed, and he wondered if the man had been as bad as he had about keeping his body in good condition. He had looked pretty haggard when he had seen him just yesterday evening. Already, he looked much better, and he wondered again why his disappearance had caused so much pain in John's life. All at once he realized that he had been very selfish since he'd turned up on the doorstep to 221B with practically no explanation.

Now that he was aware of this folly, he vowed to make it up to John that night. Somehow, he would figure out how to help his flatmate as much as the other was helping him. He realized he'd been staring at John over his menu for a good while now, and cleared his throat as he looked away. "I'm glad he took care of you when I couldn't." His voice was strangely weak and he looked away, towards where Angelo was returning for their orders.

"The usual." he said quickly, handing the larger man his menu.

"Oh, right," John stammered, finally looking up from his menu, "usual for me as well. Thank you Angelo." After handing off the menu and waiting till the larger man was out of earshot John turned back to Sherlock.

"It was never your job to take care of me, nor was it anyone else's.". He spoke with clarity, as though there was no way someone could mistake those facts. "I'm not trying to make you upset or anything like that, I just. . . I know you have your reasons for keeping certain things in the dark, but for me, to move on I have to get rid of all those bad memories, make new ones. It'll just take time." His lips pulled to the side as he studied Sherlock's reaction, "sometimes getting things out in the open helps." John shrugged, "Just don't worry about it too much." Last thing John wanted was to make Sherlock angry with himself.

He only hummed in response, he was careful not to let any of his thoughts open over his face as he delved further into the possibility that things were worse than he could have imagined for John Watson. He'd left the man to pick up his messes time and time again, but this one had by far been the worst. He was a little distracted when Angelo brought their drinks, promising their food would be brought out shortly.

"I don't think that it's my job to take care of you John. Of course not, you're a grown man. But..." he turned to look at him finally after the awkward silence, "Isn't that what friends do? Care for and do for each other even if it's not their job?" He raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms, "Isn't that what you're doing for me?

This caused John's brow to furrow deeply, half surprised, half confused. That was not something he had expected to hear from Sherlock of all people. "Yes, I suppose you're right." After a moment John broke out into a relaxed grin. "We both are sort of beating ourselves up about all this huh?" Letting out a light chuckle John's whole body relaxed, finally letting go of the built up tension between the two of them.

The light hearted chuckle made Sherlock smile, and steal a glance at John. It was good to see him happy again and not worried over the detective. Angelo arrived shortly with their food, and they chatted about different things, the novel John was reading, and the alarming growth rate of particular mold Sherlock had found on his travels. Things had seemed to slide back into the slot that 'normal' held when it came to them.

They were about halfway through dinner when Sherlock's phone rang. Frowning, he dug in his pocket for it. Not many people had this number. He looked at the number and saw Lestrade's name across the top. Swallowing his mouthful of food, he answered it.

"How did you get this number Lestrade?" he said. No salutations, straight to the point.

"Who do you think?" the Detective Inspector retorted.

"Mycroft has really got to learn to keep his fat mouth shut." he said bitterly, cutting his eyes at no one in particular, "What do you need?"

"Well Sherlock... we've gotten a murder and kidnapping case... and it's one I think you should see..."


	10. Breaking the Habit

"Well Sherlock... we've gotten a murder and kidnapping case... and it's one I think you should see..."

"John and I are on our way, text me the address." he hung up without waiting for an answer and tucked the mobile back in his pocket. "Lestrade's got a murder for us." he said, taking one more bite and signalling Angelo for the bill. The man just waved him on and Sherlock smiled before nodding his thanks and standing. "I guess it's back in the old swing of things, us leaving without you finishing a meal." His smile was wicked as he held his hand out to the man.

John simply shrugged, taking one last hurried bite. Taking the offered hand, pulling him from the bench-seat, "What's new?" But he knew Sherlock had a fair reason to comment on his eating habits as of late. "I'll just eat something when we get home tonight. We did go shopping if you recall ."

Then he moved on, falling into another easy role for the man, that of Sherlock Holmes assistant and blogger. "Did he give you any details? I'm surprised they called you so fast, sort of expected him to make you wait it out."

The thing was, John was just as excited as Sherlock. As he stood and donned his coat he could feel his pulse picking up, his smile matching Sherlocks.

"No details, He just said it was something I should see." his phone chirped and he checked it as the left the restaurant. "That's the directions. It's not far from here actually.. we can walk... I know a shortcut." and with that, he took off at a brisk walk, swerving through traffic and behind buildings until they finally emerged on a small side street where the front stoop of a home had been blocked off by police tape. He strode forward and under the tape, holding it for John as they were greeted by two familiar faces.

"So... the freak lives." Donovan sneered as she and Anderson came up to flank them.

"Always a pleasure to see you Sergeant." he said evenly as he kept up his pace. "Where's Lestrade?" He didn't want to waste time, the game was afoot.

"Inside," Anderson drawled, then he turned on John. "You know you had us all fooled, I really thought you were heartbroken over the sod."

Donovan continued before either man could interject. "Can't believe I actually felt bad for you," she glared between the two of them before settling on John. "I warned you not to get mixed up with him, what was it even for? Political stunt?," she was glaring at them both now, "Your names just weren't big enough?"

John had only maintained contact with Lestrade after everything happened, he knew those two were trouble, but to be this cruel was low, even for them. "Oh fuck off, the both of you," John practically growled taking a side step so he was leering forward in front of Sherlock protectively. What were they insinuating anyways? That they had done all this on purpose, that John had been a part of it?

Sherlock was glad John stepped in front of him, because he had been about to rip someone's head off. After a moment he placed his arm over John's and stepped around him, pushing the smaller man back with ease. His voice low enough that only the two he was directing his words to could hear him.

"John didn't know. Now I can't legally hit Donovan, seeing as she's a woman, even if she does have your bollocks in her pocket, but I have no hesitation to beat you within an inch of your pathetic waste of a life. I don't care what you say about me. You don't understand, and you're ignorance is plain, but I swear if you say anything more about John, I can not be held responsible for my actions..." He had a hand on each officer's shoulders, and his hands squeezed tightly, dangerously as he pushed through them.

"Come John!" he called back as he walked with more spring in his step seeing the obvious unease in their eyes.

Sherlock had made sure John couldn't hear what he was saying to Donovan and Anderson, but when he pushed through them they looked to John as if he may have threatened not only their lives but the lives of their posterity as well. The doctor couldn't help but smirk as he pushed through them with only a slight limp. He was no longer leaning on his cane, merely carrying it along with him, the game distracting him to some extent.

Once inside, they found Lestrade in the sitting room where a brunette woman with curly hair lay face down on the carpet in a pool of blood. An oddly burnt smell filtered through his nostrils that he couldn't quite place. It was almost sour and bitter in his sinuses. Rubbing a hand over his nose, the consulting detective scanned the room for evidence. The words GET SHERLOCK with a smile painted in the O sprayed on the wall with white spray paint. That was the most obvious clue in the room, however, as he looked around he could piece together this woman's life.

Single, living with a flatmate, name tag on the table suggested she was a scientist. Name: Sherly Howard. No pets. Couch was worn down on one side but in a larger area correlating to the size of a pair of female's hips, suggesting she and her flatmate got along well together.

Several other things became apparent as he looked at the woman. Her flatmate was more than a friend, they were lovers, this woman didn't wear makeup, so she cared little about her appearance or what others cared of her, and the lacerations on her wrists and inner arms suggested attempted suicide in her youth as well as habitual drug use. He stood and turned to Lestrade.

"What can you tell me that I don't already know?" He asked.

John scoffed at Sherlock's question, it was unlikely there was much Lestrade and his team could have found thus far that Sherlock had not already seen.

"Well, it looks like a Moriarty copycat. I'm sure you figured out she has a roommate. Joan Wilson was reported missing last night." he was interrupted by the detective

"She's not her room mate, she's her lov- wait... what did you say her name was?"

"Joan Wilson... why?"

When Lystrade repeated the name John stopped looking around the room, his brow furrowed, no, he thought, that couldn't be it.

Sherlock's eyes flitted around the room, searching for a photo. Finally he saw one above the mantle of two women. The brunette was considerably taller than the other woman who had short blonde hair and a pair of bright blue eyes. Sherlock's eyes widened as he turned to look at John to see if he followed Sherlock's train of thought.

"Bloody hell," John breathed out softly as Sherlock turned, their eyes met and they exchanged an understanding in an instant. They're us, They died because they are like us. "Sherlock they can't honestly have died just because. . . " They looked like us? Lived like us? He couldn't bring himself to say it. His hand fell to the edge of the desk beside him, holding his weight as he felt as if his knee was about ready to give out on him. "Well, Moriarty is dead so how the hell did someone find out you were alive this quickly? And what are they trying to do? Threaten us?"

Sherlock shook his head. "They aren't both dead." He said looking around the room. A few blonde hairs here, a scratch here, the rug askew. "She was taken. I don't believe they are trying to threaten us more than draw our attention." He ran through the flat looking at seemingly miniscule things, finally he threw himself face first on the floor near the door.

"Evidence bag! He called loudly, holding his hand out for someone to drop it in his hand. Once it was deposited he picked up a few pieces of grass and the small bud of a tiny flower, sliding them in the bag and zipping it closed.

He returned to the other men, holding the bag aloft. "If this is what I think it is, this only grows in two places in England... And compared with the brick dust I found, I think I might know where Joan was taken..."

Lestrade and his team weren't even given a chance to answer the question. John had been watching Sherlock's actions carefully, trying to follow the thought processes as best he could as Sherlock worked his way across the room, noticing seemingly inconsequential facts until they lined up in his mind like a twisted sort of puzzle. This was their first case being back and John didn't want to fall behind. It was obvious the consulting detective hadn't lost his touch.

"Where? You're sure she's alive?" John was mentally gearing up for the confrontation, acutely aware that he needed to start caring his hand gun again.

Sherlock nodded, "An area not far from here. We're looking for a rundown industrial district in the Park Royal area. Does anybody know any places like that?" Sherlock cursed for the first time his status of deceased as the officers around him all shook their heads. He couldn't utilize his homeless network.

"An old tire factory shut down about two years ago." Lestrade offered.

Sherlock whirled around in a circle, smelling the air. "That would explain the scent I couldn't place when I walked in. It's oily rubber. I should have known. Quick! Let's go before this copycat has too much fun shall we? They couldn't have left here more than two hours ago..."

In Sherlock's absence some of Lestrade's team had moved on to bigger and better things, save for Anderson and Donovan obviously. This meant that when Sherlock announced that there was no time to waste many of the newer officers simply looked at the odd couple invading their crime scene with raised eyebrows. As far as they were concerned, Sherlock had been a suspect before his faked death.

Again before Lestrade could step in John spoke, "Sorry, I think someone just told you where your victim is." He was irate, but he stood, teeth clenched, for barely a moment before the team swung into action.

Turning back to Sherlock the blonde relaxed, running hand through his hair. "Let's make sure we are in Lestrade's car yeah? I don't think I'm making many friends."

"More than I am." he said with a smirk, digging his hands into his pockets and strolling out the door where he knew the Detective Inspector would be waiting for them. The ride took a little less than half an hour as their sirens were on the whole way, and a sort of quiet settled over the cab of the car. Their first case together in three years. It was a bit like their first, a little awkward, and no one really seemed to want to talk.

When they arrived, Sherlock hopped out of the car with John close on his heels and started to head inside, but was quickly cut off by Lestrade. "Where do you think you're going?" Sherlock tried to get around him but the man stepped in his way again. "You're a civilian, there could be a murderer in there, let us go first."

John had just been about to side with Lestrade when Sherlock interjected. "If there is a murderer in there, he's a copycat of Moriarty, so who do you think he would rather see, me or your men?" Greg had to admit the man had a point. Begrudgingly he agreed to allow both Sherlock and John to accompany him inside, given they wear bulletproof vests at all times. Lestrade handed the army doctor a pistol similar to his own, knowing full well the doctor had packed his away for several reasons, and had yet to unpack it again.

"Thank you." John's voice was earnest, he despised being on a crime scene unarmed, and with Sherlock insisting on charging in this was the best thing Lestrade could have done for his sanity.

Catching Sherlock by the crook of his elbow he whispered feverishly, "This is our first case back. Don't run off. Don't try and take some psycho on by yourself. Just be careful, a little bit. At the very least keep near me." John let go as one of the officers handed them each a vest, giving Sherlock one last pointed stare. He'd only just got the detective back, there was no way he was going to lose him this quickly.

Sherlock huffed at John's words, but stayed close to the doctor's side anyway. After donning their vests, the three of them headed into the old abandoned tire factory. There were machines against the wall, casting deceptive shadows, and stacks of tires everywhere. The air hung heavy with the same scent that had been present in the victims flat. Lestrade had a flashlight and was shining it from wall to wall, sweeping the entire large room for any sign of movement.

Finally, they heard the noises of someone rustling in one of the offices. Sherlock pointed, and Lestrade and John nodded as they moved towards the offices located at the center of the factory. Once there they found the door that led to the shuffling Lestrade threw up an arm to stop the other two, motioning them to check for trip wires. After a quick once over, Sherlock discovered a small booby trap that he disarmed easily enough, and gave Lestrade the go ahead.

The Detective Inspector barreled through the door, gun ready to shoot if necessary, and found there was nobody inside but the blonde girl from the apartment. John swept in after Lestrade, clearing the rest of the room. Sherlock had to physically stop himself from saying I told you so as Lestrade gave them the all clear sign, but his smug attitude slipped away as he stepped into the room.

The girl was alive, but barely. She had been cut very severely over the chest, right over her heart. Blood lay all around her, like whoever had done this had enjoyed themselves, cutting her from every angle, and turning the chair this way and that as they did making sure the blood was spread out all around her. An obvious replica of the royal family's crown sat perched on her head, and a scepter was duct taped to her hand. Upon sighting them, she began struggling harder, trying to get them to help her, eyes wide and frightened.

Sherlock however was dumbstruck, a very rare state of being for the detective. He couldn't move once his eyes caught sight of the sign around her neck. It was crude, just a piece of regular sized poster board with "You should see me in a crown" written across it in a fat black marker with harsh strokes. The statement was something Moriarty had said to him, and him alone. His mouth opened and closed a few times as he stood frozen just inside the door. Lestrade hurried forward to remove the sign and check the girl for explosives. As the sign fell to the ground Sherlock saw that there was a small envelope taped to the back. Once the girl had been cleared John ran forward, and began inspecting the damage to the girls chest, the doctor in him taking precedence in the moment while Lestrade worked at her bonds.

Sherlock moved forward slowly and pulled the note off the posterboard with shaking fingers Neither the doctor or the Detective Inspector were paying attention to him, and the blissful silence made his deductions come easier even with the storm raging in his mind screaming Impossible. It was the same stationary as was used on his first cases with Moriarty, a high quality paper from the Czech Republic. He ripped open the envelope and out fluttered a small piece of paper. On it written in tight spidery handwriting was a short rhyme and a message;

Moriarty sat on a wall. Sherlock Holmes had a great fall  
but all Lestrade's Horses, and All Mycroft's men  
Couldn't put Watson together again...

You couldn't leave well enough alone could you? I'm almost all of what's left. I still owe you. Your heart is still alive...

-M

Sherlock dropped the letter to the floor, he couldn't believe this was happening. He'd killed Moriarty right? RIGHT?! Fingers carded through dark curls, and he felt himself starting to was reminded of his time in Dublin, and worked hard to try and calm his heart rate, but his body would have none of it. The thought that everything he'd done had been in vain, that this man had bested him... it was too much. His breath was coming quicker and in tighter gasps and, his heart started pounding a bruise against his chest. The room started to spin, and Sherlock didn't even bother murmuring an excuse as he headed outside. He needed air. Stumbling, he caught himself from falling twice before he made it to the door.

When he made it, sweat had started pouring from his skin, and some strange part of his mind wondered if John had been right and he'd exerted himself too much after his earlier relapse. It wasn't until a lightbulb went off in his face that he realized the paparazzi were there. So lost in his mind, he hadn't seen them or heard them as he had approached, and now a hundred cameras were flashing, and journalists were trying to get quotes. His anxiety flared and he tried to stammer no comment as his head began pounding relentlessly. So much for being discreet.

The lights going off in his eyes paired with the returning withdrawal was caused the world to spin beneath him, until finally he dropped to his knees, cradling his head in his hands to try and keep grips on reality. He was falling... falling... falling... he would hit the ground soon. He was going to die unless he got what he needed. Under the loose floorboard, deer skull, hidden in the false brick in the fireplace, between the rows of his sock index. His mind listed off all the places that he usually kept cocaine in the flat. He needed it. He needed a hit to clear his mind, to solve this problem. The pain in his stomach flared and he cried out as he wrapped his arms around his offensive innards, lights flashing in his peripheral vision not helping the waves of nausea .

He needed a hit, but he couldn't have it. Why? There was some reason he didn't have any drugs on him now. His fevered brain rushed to come to the conclusion. There was something, no someone he was stopping for. Someone who would be very disappointed if he took some of the white powder that would sing pleasantly through his veins. If he could get just one line.

NO!

The thought was so clear in his brain that it shocked him out of his needy haze, and he remembered the one thing that could ground him in that moment that wasn't drugs, or harmful at all. He cried out for it, desperate to stop the falling feeling that was quickly returning.

"John!" his voice was weak and frightened, but no one in the crowd was the doctor, and he didn't even know if the man was coming. He struggled to get to his feet, and moved back towards the building, away from the reporters, when a wall of flesh hindered his path. He began fighting, the mantra Get to John repeating in his mind. A pair of arms wrapped around him and he struggled, his eyes blurry and red, unable to see straight through his panic and need.

*****  
For a few moments John Watson felt like his life was moving in slow motion. He had been pressing a piece of cloth to the young girls mutilated chest, trying to keep her from going into shock.

"Sherlock give the medical team the all clear!" John barely looked over his shoulder as he spoke, but when he did the sight caused him to do a double take. "Sherlock?!" The man was tearing through his hair, panic washed over his face in waves, and then he was gone, fleeing from the building.

"Shit. Somethings wrong with Sherlock," Lestrade had finished with the tape holding her to the chair and took over pressing the cloth to her chest.

"Go! Just send in the team if he hasn't." Then again, a little more fervently he urged John, "GO" Stumbling to his feet, his limp and cane doing him no favors, John chased after Sherlock, pausing only to grab the paper Sherlock had dropped in his flurry and stuff it into his pocket He was just inside the door when he heard Sherlock calling out to him.

John ran into Sherlock in the doorway, but the detective didn't seem to realize it was John's arms wrapping around him. He couldn't believe what he was seeing, at some point during the girl's rescue, the building had been surrounded by paparazzi, who at the moment were bearing down on Sherlock like he was a piece of meat.

Trying to calm Sherlock John rested his hands on his shoulders squeezing them tightly. "Sherlock, come on. We need to get out of here." Lights flashed around them, John was sure they were getting some great scoop on why the detective was back. What the doctor didn't think of was the story they would print now as John held Sherlock, their faces inches from each others as John attempted to pull the younger man back to reality.

Sherlock stopped fighting once he heard John's voice, but it was very far off like he was shouting through a tunnel. His vision had darkened, and he couldn't see anything. Whether that was a side effect from his earlier withdrawals or a new development he wasn't sure. He felt his heart pounding up in his throat now. As the reporters swarmed around them he felt hot, and choking on the throbbing in his throat he tried to speak, but nothing more than a strangled groan would squeeze out of his mouth. The hands on him started spreading that warmth through his body again, but it was not helping the racing of his heart or his overwhelming need for the drug he knew would take the edge off of the pain, but he latched onto one of John's arms with a death grip, his knuckles white with strain. His legs threatened to give out beneath him and he clung to the sturdiness of the soldier.

Where the hell had Lestrade's team gone? John cursed again as he fought to hold the detective up on his feet, wrapping one arm around his thin torso. John had barely taken a step forward through the crowd when a black car with tinted windows rolled up right outside the circle of paparazzi.

The detective felt John wrap his arms around him and attempted to help the best he could, his head lolling towards the top of the doctor's head. It was as if all the energy had been sapped from him and he couldn't get it back. He wrapped a lanky arm around the doctor's neck and leaned heavily on him, allowing himself to be lead off somewhere unknown.

Anthea moved swiftly from the car, breaking through the hoard of people easily, like parting a sea. "Oh god Anthea am I glad to see you," John breathed the words in heartfelt thanks. With her help they got Sherlock in the car and they were able to leave the hoard of people quickly.

As they pulled away John saw the police vehicles had moved to the back of the building, where they could reach Lestrade without being attacked by the paparazzi. Sherlock was still working through his panic so John grabbed for his hand. Holding it in between them he spoke to Sherlock, ignoring Anthea for the moment.

Series of groans and pained noises left Sherlock's lips as he was deposited into the seat. Losing Johns touch made him feel like he was lost and couldn't cry out to be found. When his hand was found he clenched his fingers in a tight grip, pulling himself towards the source. He was met with the solid form of Doctor Watson and he curled in on himself leaning against John's sturdy frame.

"Focus on me Sherlock, alright, we're gone. Just relax." The doctor drew his bottom lip between his teeth nervously. This was all very not good.

Sherlock nodded, a miniscule movement of his head, and closed his eyes, trying to focus in the warmth and solidity of the man beside him. Almost unknowingly, his fingers moved, to avoid crushing John's hand until their fingers were laced together. His face was buried in his knees, his feet up on the seat, and the fire of the doctor's body heat flared up his back. It was grounding him a little but peace was far from forthcoming.

Shaking his head John turned to face Mycroft's assistant. His voice was quivering slightly. "What the bloody hell just happened?"

"It looks like someone tipped them off." She said, her fingers flying over the keys of her phone as they sped away from the scene. "You'll be coming back to Mycroft's estate," She continued, still focused on her phone, "I'm sure he'll want to talk with you both. . ." Her eyes flickered to Sherlock's broken form clinging to John, "However, it would appear that meeting may need to wait until the morning."

Glancing to the side, John nodded in understanding. Sherlock's eyes were clenched shut and he was gripping John's arm in a death grip, the earlier tremors returning. With Anthea's attention back on her phone John began softly whispering to the crumpled man. Reminding him he wasn't alone and telling him to breath as he brushed his thick curls off his damp forehead.

It wasn't long before they were pulling up to Mycroft's estate, John scoffed as they rolled through an automatic gate. The place looked like it belonged to Mycroft. As they pulled up to the front of the round driveway John gave Sherlock a soft shake, attempting to rouse him enough so they could move inside.

Anthea led John, who was supporting Sherlock, inside the grand estate with little to do. Gesturing up the stairs with a nod she offered, "Second door on the right is set up for him.

Sherlock clung to John as they moved upstairs, but between Sherlock's inability to fully support himself, and John's ever present limp the process was slow moving and arduous. Once the detective was deposited on the bed, he curled up, holding on to the doctor, too worried about being lost in the darkness to allow himself to release him just yet. John needed to go find Mycroft, find out what the hell was going on, but as Sherlock latched on to him desperate for the connection John gave in. It didn't take long for the exhaustion to settle over him, and once his muscles had relaxed,he was slumbering lightly, giving the smaller man the opportunity he needed.

Slipping from the room, closing the door carefully even thought it was unlikely Sherlock was about to be woken up by the click of door after the day he had had, John hurried down the stairs to find Anthea exactly where she had been when they had gone up.

He stalked up to her, determined to find answers. Tonight. "Where is he?"

"He says you can talk in the morning." she mused nonchalantly.

"Where is he?" John repeated, a sort of venom creeping into his voice as Anthea continued to work away at her phone as though none of this was her issue.

She lowered her phone for a moment, her eyebrows raised at his tone. "He's in the library, just there," She pointed to a set of double doors half way down a hallway before turning on the spot and walking away.

Upon reaching the doors John didn't bother with knocking. He pushed through the double doors into an office the size of their sitting room. The walls were lined with books and paintings, but John wasn't interested in the décor. Spotting Mycroft behind a large ornate looking desk, he stomped over, throwing himself in one of the large chairs facing the desk. He glowered at Mycroft for a moment, not saying anything.

Finally, lacing his fingers together on the desk in front of him, Mycroft broke the silence. "This isn't my fault John." He was as calm and relaxed as ever.

John scoffed and chuckled darkly, "Oh really? I think we've been here before. You had no idea right? It wasn't supposed to happen like this?"

Shifting in his seat, a seed of resent bubbling to the surface he refuted, "That wasn't what you thought, you must know that by now. I had to give that information to Moriarty, it was part of the plan."

"Part of the... No. This is not part of any plan." John paused, taking in a shaky breath. "Have you seen him? And I don't mean in passing, but have you actually spent time with him? Because if this was all part of your bloody plan Mycro-" the name got caught in his throat. Dropping his face to his hand John pinched at his brow trying to center himself before he spoke again. "How could you let him get this bad? What happened?"

"That was an unfortunate by product of the past three years, he'll be fine." Mycroft spoke as though the emotional damage was inconsequential.

John shook his head, breathing heavily, he wanted to ask about the past, and he would, but not now, not yet. "So, tonight. Not many people knew he was back. Just you, Lestrade and me. I didn't tell anyone, but somehow there is a psychopath pretending to Moriarty, leaving these... these sick clues. So if I didn't tell anyone he was back, how did the media find us? How did this psychopath know how to get to us?" He was on the verge of yelling as Mycroft sat, still and calm as ever.

"I don't know John, I'm working on it." He punctuated the end of his sentence menacingly, as if challenging John to question his abilities.

John stood, slamming a heavy fist down on the front of the wooden desk with a resounding thud. "That's not good enough!"

Mycroft craned his neck to the side, slightly perplexed by the man who was normally reeling Sherock in. This side of the doctor was new. "I have all of my resources working to figure out just what happened tonight. For the moment, we can assume it is some sort of copycat, but that can be better discussed tomorrow, with Sherlock. Obviously there was something about the crime scene that set him off. Besides, I may have more information about how our secret got out at that time. Now I implore you, John, please sit. " When the man refused, Mycroft insisted, "You want me to tell you what has been going on, what my baby brother has been doing these past few years, this is my requirement."

John hesitated for a moment longer, before giving a curt nod and taking a seat, slightly deflated, his anger ebbing away as curiosity overtook him.

Once his demand had been met, Mycroft leaned forward, steepling his fingers together, reminiscent of his younger brother, and eyed John for a few more thoughtful moments before speaking. "I tell you this out of confidence Doctor Watson, for my brother has decided not to tell you this for whatever reason, and I can only assume that you will not stop pestering me until you know. You must not let him know you are aware of it, or I fear it could prove detrimental to his recovery..." He leaned back in his chair then, crossing his left foot over his knee. It took him another long moment, and it looked as if he was steeling himself for the responses he knew would come.

John hesitated, would he be able to hide the fact that he knew the truth from Sherlock? Had he ever been able to hide anything from Sherlock? It didn't matter though, right now he needed to be able to get Sherlock through this in one piece. Dropping the last of his defenses John nodded, urging Mycroft to go on.

"For the past three years Sherlock has been protecting you and a few others from Moriarty's men. The man died on the rooftop that day, yes, but as Sherlock said, he was a spider, and to truly destroy him his entire criminal web had to be... eliminated." He paused for a moment, letting the idea sink in. "The jump itself was staged of course. Took a tremendous amount of leg work, a lot of hushing up, but it was... What did Sherlock call it? Ah yes. A magic trick. Since that day Sherlock has spent his time in shadow and squalor hunting down and either killing or handing over almost every member of Jim Moriarty's web to stop them from coming back and trying to finish what he started. He has spent that time making it safe for him to come back to London. "

Pushing himself forward in the armchair John's features pinched together in confusion, "Safe? Mycroft he wasn't safe out there. I don't-" pausing John breathed out heavily. He was finally able to ask the question that had been eating at him for three years. "Why? Why did he have to jump? Couldn't we have dealt with it here? Don't you have teams that deal with this sort of thing?"

"Moriarty had Detective Inspector Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and yourself as hostages without your knowledge. Moriarty wanted to destroy Sherlock, so he proposed an ultimatum for my brother. In short, it was his life, or yours. He jumped to save you John. Well, you and others, but I can almost guarantee you that you were the predominant thought in his mind." Leaning back into his chair the elder Holmes let out a breath before going on, a lighter tone to his voice. "While he was... away he often talked of you. You were the only one he wanted me to keep my eye on. It's why I was always meddled in your business."

Raking a hand through his hair as his head slipped forward John thought back on all the times Mycroft had butted into his life, insisting on helping in anyway he could. For a long time John had believed it to be the actions of a guilty man. John almost couldn't believe the Holmes boys, the ones who had despised sentiment so candidly had essentially spent the past three years of their lives serving others. Looking back up at Mycroft John opened his mouth, then shut it again, trying to form the question on his mind.

Mycroft sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before he continued once more."And perhaps your last question. Why didn't anybody tell you? Why did we keep it a secret? Because they had to see you grieve John. I stopped him from coming back to you, I lied to him about how you were doing so he wouldn't jeopardize what he had to do for your sake. If they had not seen you grieve for him, if they hadn't believed he was truly dead... you and I would have lost more than we could ever bear in a hundred lifetimes..." his eyes flickered towards the door, then back to John.

A sort of pain hid in John's eyes now, he had known that things had been difficult for Sherlock, but speculation is far easier to handle than the truth. "What about him, Mycroft? He's fallen apart at the seams, you do know about the drugs yeah? We got him back and trust me I'm thankful for that. But at what cost?"

"Yes... I am painfully aware of everything he has been doing to himself. My baby brother picked his drug habit up again to cope with what he had to do. No matter what mask he puts on, you and I both know he's human, and he had to cross a lot of lines no one should have touch. Not to mention the guilt of putting the few people he might care about through hell. I believe the opioid dependency is partly due to the pain he endured at times. There were a few occasions, in order to get close enough to the target he would allow himself to be tortured and interrogated. It worked, but... Well I'm sure you've seen the scars by now," He leaned forward once more, arms resting on the desk before him. John was speechless, horrified as he thought of the deep scars jutting across Sherlock's back.

"In the end, I would ask you to quit prying now that you know. I am sure he did not want to burden you with this knowledge, because he feared you might see him differently if you knew. I implore you to quell your curiosity and just help him recover, because you seem to be the only one who can. God knows he won't let me. . . ." He trailed off looking out the window.

Suddenly quite desperate to return to Sherlock, John stood, "I'll do everything I can. Now if that's all. . " he left the open sentence, waiting for the older man to release him, an old military habit.

Mycroft didn't move his attention, still staring listlessly out the window. "Yes. Everything else can be discussed in the morning with Sherlock. We still have much to go over."

John gave a short nod before hurrying from the large office to the spare room where he had left Sherlock. He paused for a moment outside the door, his hand on the decorative knob, to still his mind. The last thing he needed to do at the moment was give away the fact that Sherlock's demons were no longer his secrets.

Pushing the door open softly John crept into the dark room. He only bothered stopping to lose his shoes and coat before slipping between the covers quickly finding Sherlock and resting his arm over the detectives torso.

Sherlock felt the movement of the sheets and slowly blinked into wakefulness as an arm stretched over his body. He shifted a little, his voice quiet and raw as he spoke, "John?"

John shifted closer, tucking his hand under the other side of Sherlock's body, forcing them closer. "Yeah I'm here. We're at your brother's, everything's fine though. You alright?" John's voice was barely above a whisper.

"Marginally." he said softly, one hand coming down to follow John's and tuck under his body as well, just above the doctor's so that they were touching all the way down their arms, "What about you?" He could tell there was something wrong with the tension in the other's body, "You seem upset... did you and Mycroft have a row?"

"When do I ever get along with Mycroft?" John teased, not wanting Sherlock to have any reason to suspect the truth. "But no, just. . ." he paused, letting out a heavy breath. "A lot happened today, that's all."

Sherlock rolled over in John's arms, so that he could look into blue eyes. It was difficult in the dark, but he felt better facing the other man. "You shouldn't be worrying about this. It seems I have forced you to take care of me twice and I..." He trailed off, not certain how he had originally intended to end that statement, instead of speaking, his own slender arms moved around John, pulling him into a gentle hug, arms loose so the man could pull away if he felt was enough to show what he meant. John would understand.

To John's own amazement, he nuzzled into the embrace a bit, resting his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder, his body relaxed slightly. A part of him knew that this was far beyond comfort, that their relationship was shifting into something new, but John didn't really care anymore. "Don't. You don't need to apologize, I'm not upset about anything you've done. Understand?"

Sherlock tipped his head down to bury his nose in the silkiness of John's hair, his arms pulling the other closer now that he knew he wouldn't run away. The smell of his flatmate surrounded him and wrapped him in a cocoon of comfort. There was something purely John about it, and he thought that it was going to lull him back to sleep on it's own. "I understand..."

"Good." John quipped, "Now, try and get some sleep. I have a feeling you aren't going to enjoy tomorrow, especially considering we get to wake up and spend it with your brother." John knew it didn't matter what Mycroft had done over the past three years, he still irritated the hell out of Sherlock. Tomorrow was sure to be interesting.

Sherlock was halfway asleep as he murmured his last words, tucking his nose against John's forehead as he drifted off, "Promise me you'll be here when I wake up. That you won't disappear like this morning." And he was gone, breathing evenly and body fully relaxed in sleep.

"I promise." John whispered the words, knowing the man beside him was already asleep.

Notes: There have been a lot of people reading our fic lately.. We really hope you are enjoying it as much as we are.  
We are just about done editing part one now, just finishing the last few chapters, and then we will probably start posting it a bit faster. That being said, there will be a short hiatus between part 1 and 2, we have a lot of work to do on Part 2 so it's necessary. I can promise it will be no longer than a month. Today you guys get chapters 9 and 10.. and after that we only have 8 chapters left 3 We are over half way there. Also the note in this was inspired by watch?v=_Fmq8ZXieJ0


	11. Stay

John woke with a start to see Anthea moving about their room. He stared incredulously for a moment before sitting up, still fully clothed from the day before. "What the bloody hell are you doing in here.?" She gestured to the pile of clothes she had just deposited on top of the short dresser.

"Mycroft says to get dressed and come downstairs for breakfast." John found himself wondering for the second time if Anthea had a life outside of Mycroft.

"How the hell did he get our clothes?" John could see the sleeve of one of his nicer jumpers hanging loosely from the pile, but Anthea was already on her way out of the room. The door shut with a deafening click.

His head rolled back as he groaned at the ceiling, before turning to wake Sherlock. Gently he nudged Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock?"

The loss of John's body heat was what woke him initially, but he soon heard John's warm voice calling to him and opened his eyes to the brightness of the room. Sitting up as well, He felt John's presence beside him, and followed his gaze with bleary eyes to the pile of clothes on the table.

"He's hilarious." Sherlock remarked sarcastically as he ran a hand through his mussed curls, "Thinking that I always wear proper clothes when demanded."

John let out a short laugh, "Of course. I'm assuming you don't plan on keeping yesterday's clothes on then at least?" The whole scenario was causing John to be overly chipper considering the previous nights events, but he couldn't help it. The attitude was just so very Sherlock, the normality of it all was practically intoxicating.

John had a fairly good idea what was about to happen. Before the fall Sherlock had become quite accustomed to moving about the flat in nothing but a sheet on days when he couldn't even have been bothered to put on pants. This had of course led to the infamous visit to Buckingham Palace with Sherlock in nothing but the accused sheet. This was the point in which John normally stepped up and reminded Sherlock to act his age, but as Sherlock's actions seemed so natural and uninhibited, John couldn't bring himself to fight him on the subject, not really.

"You should probably at least leave pants on this time." He offered, sliding from the bed to retrieve his own fresh clothing. Bothered as he was that Mycroft, or more likely Anthea, had rifled through their belongings he was happy to have clean clothes.

"Oh alright, but only because you asked so nicely." Sherlock stood a bit wobbly at first, causing John to move towards him slightly, but after a moment he'd gotten his feet under him, and he wrapped the still warm sheet around himself before turning and proceeding to undress beneath it, down to his underthings, leaving them on per John's request. He kicked the rest of his clothes away, and wrapped the sheet tightly around himself wishing he could just wrap the doctor around him instead. Now that they were up and around, he felt cold, and empty.

Sitting back down on the bed he started thinking about the case the night before. He ran through his mind again, making sure that there was no possibility anyone could have overheard what Moriarty had said to him in his flat that day. No one had been home, and Sherlock had just done a sweep for Mycroft's 'big brother' act not an hour before the man had shown up.

Was it possible that Moriarty had somehow fooled him on that rooftop? This couldn't be a copycat. It felt too vindictive, too personal. But how could it be? He started fretting over it, and decided that having another episode like last night wouldn't help anyone, so he  
pushed it to the side until he could look over it with other eyes that might be able to help  
him calmly see evidence he might not because of the stress on his mental front both from his tedious cocaine addiction and the inability to attempt to process this information without his heart rate skyrocketing.

Slightly startled John halted his motions, his arm half way through the sleeve of the jumper, "You alright?" Slowly he began moving again, a curious eye on Sherlock. The man was now scantily clad in the crisp white sheets, which was sure to infuriate Mycroft, but what had caused John to start was the stare that had been fixed on him. It was the sort of look he got when he was lost in the recesses of his mind palace.

A light blush tinted the detective's cheeks as he came back into himself, realizing that he had been staring at John, lost in thought as the other had tried to get dressed. Not even bothering to stammer an apology, he turned and flopped onto the bed, burying his face in the down comforter that hadn't quite lost all the warmth it had absorbed from them.

John shrugged as he continued to get dressed and in a few moments he was standing in front of Sherlock, his head cocked to the side as he regarded the detective carefully. Finally he reached out a hand to pull Sherlock from the bed. "Come on, let's get this over with."

Sherlock didn't take Johns hand but instead stood, striding out of the room, leaving John to follow in his wake. He strode into the library knowing full well that his insufferable arse of a brother was waiting for them. He didn't however expect what he saw when he walked in.

Nothing would have seemed out of the ordinary to anyone except the consulting detective himself. Mycroft had a softer expression than per usual, and he seemed more relaxed than Sherlock had seen him in years. His skin had a healthy glow, and his usual snark smile was less snark and more smile. Greg was wearing the same suit he'd worn the day before and smelled faintly of his brother's aftershave. The DI's face flushed a little as they entered and he caught Sherlock's knowing gaze.

Could it be that the man Greg was seeing was his own brother? He'd always assumed Mycroft was more like himself in the fact that he was married to his work. He decided to watch the two of them and wait for them to reveal more of their relationship.

"Always good to see you properly dressed for the occasion Sherlock." Greg teased as they bustled into the room. Sherlock only gave him a sarcastic smile and moved to sit in one of the chairs in front of Mycroft's large wooden desk.

Mycroft shook his head minutely. "Please ignore my brother's attire Greg, giving him attention only encourages the behavior." He shot John a look that clearly asked why he was allowed out of the room as he was, but all the doctor could do was shrug surreptitiously from behind Sherlock as he moved to take up the last seat in front of the desk.

"First things first." Mycroft started, pulling a file from the inside of his desk and pushing it across the table to Sherlock. "A few quick signatures and I should be able to reinstate your 'status'."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, glaring at his brother for a moment before accepting the pen being held out to him and signing the highlighted areas.

"There." he spat, pushing the file back to Mycroft

With that piece of business out of the way a sort of understood silence between the four of them as they readied themselves for what was to John spoke up. "So have you learned anything since last night?" He could tell by the lack of information offered that there was little to report.

"As I said last night we can safely assume this is a copycat," Mycroft deadpanned, "I saw Moriarty's body, he's dead."

"So was The Woman." Sherlock snorted, "In any matter, there was a note, on the back of the sign the victim was wearing, that quote on the sign, 'You should see me in a crown.' I've heard it before. Moriarty had said with only me in the room. However, I dropped the note... it's most likely lost somewhere as I'm sure none of Lestrade's brilliant crew would have thought to pick it up..." He looked away angrily, "It's unlikely that this is a copycat in any case. It's more likely that the man that shot himself on top of Barts was not the real Moriarty..." He let that thought sink into his own brain for a moment. It was possible.

John had almost forgotten slipping that piece of paper into his pocket the night before, his thoughts had been occupied by much else at the time, but as Mycroft stared at Sherlock incredulously as if he wasn't sure how valid his brothers word was at the moment, he spoke up. "I have it, the note. I-. . . when Sherlock left the room, I saw the paper fall and I assumed it was important, but with everything that happened I forgot."

The entire room seemed to fix him with a look that was a mixture of relief that the evidence had not been lost and irritation, mostly from Mycroft and Sherlock, that John hadn't thought to even look at it until now.

"I'll just. . . " gesturing towards the door John hurried to retrieve the note in question.

By the time he returned he had read over the note three times, walking slowly into the room he held it up slightly, "What the fuck is going on?" Now John understood what had set Sherlock into the panic. Hurrying back to the seat John smoothed out the paper, crumpled from being in his pocket, in front of Mycroft.

Mycroft read the note carefully before handing it over to Lestrade with a pointed glance that held a silent conversation, Go along with me. Turning to Sherlock, the elder Holmes steepled his chin upon his hands, "I told you when you came back that we could never be sure you found everyone. You took care of all the major players, but Moriarty was devious. It is likely there is still someone, some sort of criminal, left with just enough information with so as to get to you. They are not Moriarty, and it is very unlikely they pose half the threat he did. I identified the body myself Sherlock. He is dead."

The detective opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off.

"Okay, fine. But what are we supposed to do because Moriarty or not, they obviously know a lot about us, and have the same intent that he did. . . " John trailed off, looking back and forth between Mycroft and Lestrade.

Giving Lestrade a small nod as if in silent agreement upon some unknown subject Mycroft continued. "You two will continue to work on cases for Greg, but you will not be the first ones in like last time. Once sites have been secured you will be permitted to take a look around, gather your own evidence. If this character is serious about bringing you harm any crime scene could be a trap." Mycroft paused for a moment, letting it all soak in. "There is, of course, one last stipulation. If you wish to continue being brought on with any cases you will need to alter your appearances, particularly you Sherlock."

Sherlock glared at the both of them. Stupid wankers

"You're just trying to make my job harder aren't you?" Sherlock asked, obviously irritated, "Why should I have to change the way I look to continue on cases? Why can't we just wear a police uniform or something?"

Lestrade finally spoke up from behind Mycroft. "Because this copycat isn't exactly the only person you need to worry about spotting you." He produced a laptop and turned it around where Sherlock could see what was open. "There's about a hundred different fansites dedicated to both you and Moriarty, some believed you were still alive, some didn't. But some of those sites are downright creepy with how much they know about you."

Sherlock leaned forward and scrolled through some of the web pages that had been pulled up. There were quite a few that talked about all the little details from the last few days leading up to his jump, and the information went from discussing the work Sherlock had been doing on his website before it was shut down, all the way to what products he used in his hair to keep it so curly and what the exact shade of green his eyes were.

John craned his neck, trying to read over his shoulder, but there wasn't anything new. He had seen many of these sites over the past three years, in fact the pages Lestrade chose to open were some of the more mild ones. That being said, John had been under the impression that they died out after the first year or so. The detective pushed the laptop away from himself and crossed his arms once more, looking at them and raising an eyebrow as if to say, So?

Lestrade sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. "You'll have to change your appearance, both of you." He cut his eyes at the doctor then, "They'll know you from the way you dress and your hair Sherlock. You need to do something totally different from your norm. Which means no more expensive suits Sherlock, and definitely not your coat and scarf. And no jumpers John."

The doctor could see why Sherlock needed to change his look. He stuck out like a sore thumb, what with always popping his coat collar up and all, but no jumpers. Not wanting to cause more hassle, considering the obvious hell Sherlock was preparing to raise, John simply dropped his chin, letting out a rather bothered sigh.

"And you think you can force us to do this?" Sherlock asked, raising his chin, his defiance back in full force.

"Sher-" John started, but was cut off by Lestrade. The two were practically peacocking.

"If you want to continue to scout crime scenes you will." Greg replied, crossing his arms, just as stubborn.

"You need me."

"You need the case's as much as we need you to solve them." The Detective Inspector countered.

Mycroft cut in before Sherlock had a chance to continue his argument with Lestrade. "None of this is up for discussion Sherlock. You either abide by the stipulations we have set up or barricade yourself inside 221B, because whoever this is, they want you in the public light. That's how the media found you yesterday, someone tipped them off." The elder Holmes was leaning forward, his voice lacking it's standard monotone, an edge of urgency creeping in. "You're quite right in the fact that your expertise is inimitable, but it will be for not if we let whoever is doing this get to you. The rules that have been set out are not just for your protection Sherlock. They are there to protect Greg, his team, and John." Mycroft knew all too well that that would quiet Sherlocks disputes. Shifting his attention to John, Mycroft raised his eyebrows, "If there isn't anything else Anthea will be able to help you on your way. There are a variety of clothing shops with my information on file." He stood as if to see them off.

"No need to feign politeness Mycroft." Sherlock sniffed, standing in all his sheeted glory, "You've already ruined enough for one day haven't you?" He turned on his heel, striding out of the room, the sheet trailing behind him like a train.

"Come John!" He called after him as he made his way back to their room to dress for the inexplicably tedious day of shopping they were about to embark on.

John waited just long enough that Sherlock had already swept from the room, "Thank you. He's not happy about it, but if this will keep him safe, thank you." There wasn't really much else John could say, so drawing his bottom lip between his teeth, and releasing it with a sharp breath he nodded and followed after the detective.

In his haste Sherlock had made it to the room before John had even hit the stairs, he could see Anthea on the sofa in the sitting room, ostensibly waiting for Sherlock to dress so they could go shopping. John trudged up the stairs, he was not excited about having to change his look. What was that even supposed to mean, he thought to himself, he didn't have a look. Sherlock's appearance would be much easier to alter, and for a moment John let his mind wander to the many directions they could go to make Sherlock look less obvious.

With a short knock John pushed through into the spare room they had been occupying.

Sherlock was buttoning up his dress shirt, having already donned his pants. He turned when John knocked on the door.

"Isn't this ridiculous?" He asked stopping buttoning two shy from the top. "We shouldn't have to change the way we look..." He grumbled more under his breath as he pulled on his suit coat and gathering up his coat and scarf.

"Tedious..." He murmured pushing past John again and heading out the door, leaving his clothes in the room to be returned later.

John hurried after Sherlock, catching him by the elbow at the top of the stair, "And you shouldn't have had to disappear for three years, but you did." it took John half a second to realize how harsh that sounded, "What I mean is, you did what you had to. We shouldn't have to change the way we look, but if we want to stop this, for good, then we need to be willing to do whatever is necessary." Letting go of his hold on Sherlock his features softened, "It's only a monumental event if you make it one, we're just going shopping."

Looking over the banister John could see where Anthea was waiting for them, "Besides. It's on your brother, remember?" He shot Sherlock a mischievous grin at this remark.

John's harsh statement had stopped him dead, like a shot of ice running through his veins. He felt like the bottom of his stomach had just dropped out. John tried to backpedal, but the damage was done. His eyes were cold when John let go of his arm.

"Yeah.. just shopping..." he said softly and headed down the stairs. Anthea ushered them out into a car that whisked them away to downtown London. During the trip Sherlock was quiet, introverted into his mind palace as they drove through the dreary world.

They pulled up to a small mens boutique that had mannequins out in the front window dressed in clothes both more casual and younger than either of them were used to. "This is your stop." Anthea said, still typing away, "Here's a list of boutiques on this street. Get yourselves enough clothes for several weeks and then take a cab home. Make sure Sherlock changes his hair too." She then went back to texting and paid them no more mind. Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled himself from the car without another word.

Slipping out after Sherlock John held up the list that had been given to them. Of course the first shop on the list was the one they were standing in front of. John shook his head, finally a little overwhelmed. "Right," he started, glancing up and down the street. Luckily it was Sunday morning, so the streets were rather calm.

Sherlock was obviously still disinterested in the entire affair, so it wouldn't do for John to lose focus. Setting his sights on a boutique farther down the street called Lacombé John started walking, "Come on. This place doesn't look quite as bad." He pointed at the boutique about four buildings away from them which had made Mycrofts shortlist.

The boutique looked a bit like an upper end young gentleman's store, and Sherlock decided he could stand it. Barely.

John kept his gaze focused on the pavement ahead of his feet as they walked towards Lacombé "So," John began carefully, "Are you gonna be able to lose the infamous coat?" He side stepped into Sherlock playfully. If the detective didn't loosen up soon it was going to be a very long day.

John bumped into him, but his mood was still soured by the earlier comment he had made. "It's hardly infamous..." He replied with a flat tone. He opened the door with a stiff arm, and began perusing the racks quickly with hardly a look.

John's rebuttal came quickly with a small chuckle, "Have you seen the websites?" But Sherlock was already gone, the doctor couldn't be sure he'd been heard, but assumed it was best he let the man be alone for a moment, it didn't last long. The detective was still bothered by John's words that morning, but as in all things, he needed him. "John?" He called back, knowing the man wouldn't be that far behind, "Where do we even start?"

Placing a button down shirt he had been inspecting questioningly back on the rack John followed down the lines of clothing to where Sherlock stood. Where to start, that was a good question. "Trousers?" John laughed at his own uncertainty, it was no secret that Sherlock was the better dressed of the two on any given day. Shit, John thought to himself, Sherlock pulled off a sheet better than he pulled off his jumpers most days. Shaking off the thought, John walked over to the wall which seemed to contain every possible color and fade of denim there was. He shrugged, "You normally wear dress pants, so denim would definitely be a change."

"Denim..." He scoffed, "how dreadful." He sighed and picked up a pair that he knew would fit him about like his normal pants. He grabbed another pair and held them aloft.

"Good heavens..." he looked down at the pants that looked like they were made for women. The legs were so small he was worried even his thin limbs wouldn't fit. With a scoff he put them back and moved on to grab a few more pairs of jeans and presented them to John. He had enough pairs in different shades of blue, black, and grey, as well as a pair of khakis.

"Will this work?" he asked.

Picking through the stack in Sherlock's arms John hummed appreciatively, nodded, then took them from him with a nod toward the back of the shop. "You have to ask an attendant for a key to the dressing rooms I believe." And with one hand John shooed him in that direction. The moment Sherlock turned away John reached for the skinny jeans the detective had so blatantly scoffed at, and carefully slipped them into the middle of the stack.

Eventually John would have to try on some new clothes as well, but he was hoping to get away with just replacing his jumpers with a different style shirt.

When Sherlock returned with a key John handed the stack of jeans over, a little too gleefully. He wouldn't admit it to Sherlock, but he could get used to his flatmate wearing something other than suits, loungewear and sheets.

Sherlock plucked a few shirts on his way to the dressing room, knowing John wouldn't be too far behind. Stepping into the changing room he began to hang everything up on the pegs in the room, and found the impossible pair of pants he'd seen earlier.

"Oh good lord John..." He mumbled frowning. He thought about immediately placing them somewhere else, but feeling like having a bit of a lark after his earlier sour mood, he slipped them on. He turned in the mirror and looked himself over. They made him look taller, and his long legs look longer, if that were possible. He removed his shirt and pulled on a black and blue plaid flannel shirt to go with the black jeans and stepped out of the small cubicle.

"Well? Do I look properly ridiculous?" He leaned back on the door and crossed his feet at the ankles.

John had been toying with a shirt at the end of one of the racks, and turned when he heard Sherlock. The blondes eyes got wide for a moment when he caught sight of Sherlock, there was no reason he should look that good in those clothes, but he did. "Uhm," John's mouth felt a little dry as he looked Sherlock over, "You actually put them on?" A smile broke across his face, "They don't look that bad Sherlock, like at all. Do you like them?"

Personally, John was now convinced that Sherlock should always wear denim. As he looked Sherlock over once more he nodded, yes definitely.

Sherlock blinked at John as the doctor looked him over. His eyes went wide, and his mouth shifted as if it had gone dry, and then that smile. His stomach gave a flutter, and he decided that smile was something he wanted to see more often. In truth the pants felt like they fit fine. They were a little tighter around his legs than he was used to, but that didn't bother him. His thinness made it so the pants weren't too tight across his hips, which he was thankful for, but they were much more of a snug fit. And as he watched John's reaction he decided, yes he did like these. Very much.

"They will suffice." He said, his voice even so that he didn't give anything away, and turned back to try on some more clothes.

After what felt like an eternity of parading in front of John like a peacock, he had settled for a few more pairs of the jeans John seemed to like, a few loser pairs, and a pair of a little bit nicer slacks. He'd amassed a small collection of plaid button downs, some t-shirts and casual long sleeves as well as a new jacket. It was leather with jersey knit lining and a hood like some of the hooded sweatshirts he'd seen some younger men wearing. He'd also picked a few pairs of shoes, including a pair of black converse high top sneakers.

All the clothes he had chosen were neatly folded and bagged up for him, having refused to wear any of it home, he wanted to be able to wear his own clothes for at least that long.

But now, it was John's turn to have to go through the pony show. "Guess we will have to look around and see if we can find you anything you will be comfortable in other than jumpers" Sherlock teased as he lounged on one of the benches in front of the dressing rooms. "Personally I think your jumpers make you look older... You need something that says young and hip." The air quotes were almost audible in his voice. "I'm sure we can find you some leather or suspenders around here somewhere..."

John shot a feeble glare at the detective, but as he turned to peruse the racks of clothing a smirk pulled at the corner's of his lips, at least Sherlock was enjoying himself a bit, even if it was at John's expense. "My jumpers do not make me look old. They just," John hesitated, and then conceding to Sherlock's comment sighed, "don't look particularly young. Oh fine, but you stay put. I will not entertain your antics, there will be no suspenders."

"I tried on your pants..." He said, his voice taking on that childish, almost whiny tone that he tended to get at times. In truth, he actually liked John's jumpers. They looked warm and comfortable, just like he knew the man to be.

Although Sherlock had been the most apprehensive about the whole trip, John was without a doubt the most indecisive. He moseyed around the shop for a bit before he found an area that suited him.

"You know," John called, from two racks over where he was comparing two startlingly similar button down shirts, "We are going to have to do something about your hair, since it's apparently. . . . iconic with our fans." Deciding to try both shirts on John laid them over his arm along with three others. "I think there's a place near Baker Street we could go to tomorrow."

Emerging from behind the racks, his arms laden with a few new pairs of jeans, a casual blazer jacket, a variety of button down shirts and a few dark T-shirts John headed for the dressing room. It wasn't as if John only wore jumpers, so it wouldn't be too hard for him to not wear them, it just seemed he was particularly known for them. All of the clothes he had found were of much better quality than anything he currently owned anyhow.

"Absolutely not." He said as John passed him. "As much as I enjoy contact with you. Physical contact with another person is quite distasteful..."

John paused before entering the small dressing room. Turning to face Sherlock he considered explaining that there was no reason to be bothered by the slight amount of contact that came with visiting the hair salon but then he thought about all of the physical torment Sherlock had been through, it was a surprise he let John get as close as he did. So instead he left it to Sherlock, "How are you going to change your hair then?"

"You could cut it for me." He said nonchalantly as if it were the most normal thing in the world, "I suppose Mycroft will expect me to change the color too..." He reached up and tugged at an incessant curl that fell down over his forehead, "There was quite a discussion over the color on those dreadful websites..." He released the curl, letting it spring back into place and huffed out a sigh.

"Would you do that for me John?" Normally he would just expect the man to do it and pressure him until he did, but for some unknown reason, he felt like he should ask.

Reaching his free hand to cupping the back of his neck John thought about it for a moment before responding. "I haven't cut anyones hair since. . . God since Afghanistan." He laughed, dropped his hand to his side and shrugged contently. "Yeah, I can do it for you, just no complaining. I am in no way a professional. " With that he slipped into the dressing room to begin the show. As he stood staring at a pile of clothes he would have otherwise never considered John shook his head. Oh the things we do for each other.

John came out in several different shirts which all looked very flattering and were fine, but Sherlock would be glad when all of this mess was over. When they stopped having to hide who they were. He was always one for the thrill of the chase, but he'd been chasing for three years... he just wanted to lie around the house nuzzling into John's jumpers but it seemed he couldn't even do that anymore.

He was frowning slightly when John came out in a god awful shade of yellow that made him look very sickly and pale. "Good god no." he said waving the man to go back into the stall and change. He hoped that was the last of this changing nonsense. He just wanted to go home and have a cup of tea and watch crap telly with his blogger.

John was in the dressing room, changing back into the clothes he'd arrived in when his phone began ringing. Pressing the phone between his shoulder and ear so he could finish getting dressed John answered. "Hey Mary, I ca-. . . What? Are you okay." Forcing his shoes onto his feet without pausing to properly lace them John grabbed the phone, urgency creeping into his voice. "Yeah, of course." Gathering the pile of clothes he'd decided on with one arm and pushing through the door of the dressing room he gestured for Sherlock to follow him to the counter. "Okay, I'll be there in just few." Setting his own small pile of clothes on the checkout counter he finished, a hint of irritation creeping into his voice. "Yes, I'm on my way now. Ta." John shook his head, staring at the phone dumbly for a moment.

"I have to go." He was slipping his phone back in his pocket, ready to head out the door. "Can you take this stuff home for me? One of the nurses, someone broke into her flat. I have to go." And so with hardly an explanation John was heading out the door, and hailing a cab.

Sherlock frowned as John gave a quick excuse and left him at the counter. He knew why John had to go, he was the knight in shining armor for everyone, always taking care of everyone including the detective himself. Sometimes, Sherlock absolutely hated that trait.

Notes: Sorry guys. Next chapter is awesome.. And by awesome I mean full of terrible angst. Anyways. Enjoy. Review. And follow us on tumblr


	12. Apologize

When the detective's taxi rounded the bend, he asked the cabbie to drop him off at the corner. Their front stoop was surrounded by paparazzi. Sighing, he figured he'd have to use Mrs. Hudson's back door. She wasn't home, but she left a key under the mat. Turning down the alley, he made his way down to the back stoop,and lifted the key from it's spot to unlock the door before replacing the key. It screeched open, and he had to pull fairly hard to get it to close again.

Sherlock's return home after the abrupt dismissal from John found him pacing his room with a heavy heart. He couldn't quite figure out why he was so... bothered by the fact that John had run off to help a friend. It came to him when he had finally set about moving his old clothes to the back of his closet and hanging his new clothes in the front. It was because it was a woman friend that he jumped to so readily. Their friendship was already so tenuous, he worried that a woman wheedling her way into his life might just rehash old arguments John had about Sherlock demanding so much of him that he scared John's dates off. None of them had been great for him anyway, and besides the thought of anyone else receiving the calming touches John bestowed on him was infuriating.

Suddenly the overwhelming frustration that had come over him when the thought that Lestrade might be seeking after his Doctor returned two fold. Leaving John's clothes still folded in the bag near his closet, he sat on the edge of his bed, fingers steepled under his chin, and turned this feeling over, examining every bit of it. Desire to have a person to one's self, constant desire to be the focus of attention from said person, frustration and even volatile anger when person is encroached by another individual... Jealousy. He looked up from the floor then, a little surprised. He was jealous over John? Why? John was his flat mate, but he was his own person.

But there it was, and if he was truly honest with himself, he knew John had been more than just his flat mate since he'd come back. He was Sherlock's rock, the one he knew he could depend on, the one who had lain beside him, even at his own discomfort, and let the detective ride the waves of withdrawal as if it were nothing, soothing him when he should have just left him to deal with it on his own.

Sherlock realized then and there, that he would never be worthy of the friendship that John Watson bestowed on him. Not now, not ever. And yet, here he was, running off to help someone he hadn't even known about. His mind flickered back over the past few days, to every thing he had done to warrant John wanting to possibly leave 221B, every single thing he'd been an arse about, and the evidence was staggering. John shouldn't have even let him back in the flat, let alone stuck by him, but he'd been by his side through everything. Sherlock chided himself that jumping to conclusions about John leaving just because he'd gotten a call from a woman. He sounded like... a jealous lover his mind supplied, but he quickly tossed the idea away with a quick shake of his head.

As he'd been flicking through the events of the past two days through his mind, he'd caught the tails of something he wanted to reflect on further. One of the websites he had skimmed through had mentioned something about John's declining health. He'd seen the evidence himself, but knowing exactly how it had happened was something different entirely. Deciding it was necessary research to help John rebuild the walls Sherlock had busted down with the past three years, he retrieved John's laptop and sunk into his chair to scour the vast internet for any source he could get his hands on to see just how much Mycroft had been lying to him.

The cab ride from downtown to Mary's flat took a little over a half an hour. Just enough time for him to realize how hastily he had left Sherlock, without explaining where he was going. He knew Mary was fine, she had told him the police had already been by, the intruder had left. But she was shaken up and John was her friend, sort of, so he couldn't very well tell her no.

Mary had started working at the surgery shortly after Sherlock's death, that in itself made it easy for John to talk to her, at first anyway. There was a certain appeal to the fact that she didn't know how absurdly close they had been or just how deeply it had cut at John. All Mary knew was that his old flatmate had offed himself, and that information was supplied solely by the rumor mill around the clinic, and the papers of course.

As time went on though Mary became increasingly persistent in her attempts to gain John's interest, whilst the poor doctor was readily slipping into his own self destructive depression. Dating had left his mind a long time ago. Eventually the two were able to balance out, Mary was overly chipper whenever she saw him at work, and they would share a table in the breakroom if their lunches overlapped. But that was the extent of their relationship and John had begun to believe Mary's romantic pursuits were a thing of the past.

When the cabbie finally pulled up to her building John hastily paid the driver and bound up the steps to her flat, rapping harshly on the door. He was thoroughly surprised when a rather unbothered Mary answered the door. She was by no means unattractive, just sort of a cookie cutter beauty. She stood just a few inches shorter than John, shoulder length brunette hair, hazel eyes, and thin but not absurdly so.

These were not the things John was thinking about as he looked her over. She was holding the door open, standing to the side so he could walk in, and he did, looking around the room incredulously. "You said you had a break in?" He started slowly as, "What the hell is going on Mary?" Looking around the small flat John could easily see that everything was fine, nothing seemed out of place or disturbed and looking back at Mary he saw no answers. She was standing innocently with a small smile. She was wearing dark blue shorts and a black tank top, much different than how John was used to seeing her dressed for work. God how he wished he could do the things Sherlock did, the detective would surely already know what was going on.

"There was, but I guess the alarm scared them off. I was just really shaken up and wanted some company." She was pouting slightly, "If I had known you were going to be such an arse about it I wouldn't have called you for help." Letting out a small 'hmph' she stalked from the entryway into the kitchen area.

John followed after her predictably, shutting the door as he did so. "I don't mind helping you out Mary, but you made it sound like there was an emergency, which," he raised his arms, gesturing to the untouched room, "is obviously not the case. I was in the middle of something."

She spun around on the spot, the pout gone, replaced by a devilish smile. "Oh, I didn't mean to ruin your day," Taking a step forward she caused John to back up against the counter. "Let me make it worth your while." Her voice was seductive and breathy, John stood still, unanswering, his hands splayed against the countertop on either side of him. A part of him wanted to stop the entire encounter right there, but he was frozen. Stuck between curiosity and pure frustration. Stepping closer she ran her fingertips down his jaw line, letting her nails caress the skin causing an involuntary shiver to roll up his spine. Mary smiled and hummed approvingly at his response.

Closing his eyes in an attempt to block her out John spoke softly, "Mary, we can't do this. I'm sorry but-"

"Shh." She placed her own finger to his lips, "I know you want this dear," her body was perhaps a centimeter from his own, the heat of it resonating, alerting his senses. "No one will find out."

As Mary leaned in to place a kiss against John's lips a series of thoughts rushed through John's mind. He hadn't been with anyone in ages. It was about time he went out with a woman, and it was definitely about time he got laid. Sherlock would probably scare her off just like he scared everyone off before. Sherlock.

That was the last thought the crossed his mind. When her lips met his it was as if a dam had broken, acting on pure instinct John leaned in, catching her around the waist to pull their bodies together. In a moment they were stumbling towards the sitting room, where she gently pushed him into the couch before crawling on top of him. Straddling his hips, she ducked back down, their lips crashing together again.

The further Sherlock delved, the more he wished he'd never started. The things he read were awful, and he really wanted to lay Mycroft out for hiding all of this from him. Most of the websites he'd seen so far talked about how thin John had been getting, and how the press had been harassing him, but there were a few sites with Videos and photos that had startled him more than he'd thought possible. Apparently there had been a lot of hate mail sent to 221B in regards to Sherlock's death and the accusations made against the detective. Some sites included images of the letters they'd stolen from the house. There had been so many that the postman had just left them on the doorstep instead of trying to put them all through the slot.

He's not coming back. If you miss him so much why don't you join him.

What do you think you were trying to prove?

He was just another man. He fooled you too.

Give up.

The hateful words jumped from the screen, anger coursing through him as he scoured the images. There was a video at the bottom of the page, and he clicked on it. The video jumped to full screen so he could easier read the faces of the people in them.

It was a candid video, probably shot with someone's cell phone, and the quality was shoddy at best, but it was clear enough that he could pick out landmarks. Sherlock could tell from the surroundings that they had caught John on his way to work. Apparently, spotting him walking, the filmer called out to him and the camera shot only the ground for a moment as the person made their way across the street.

"You're John Watson right?"

"I'm sorry, I don't think we've met and I'm just late to work." he heard John's voice respond. The camera finally came back up and he was face to face with John, looking horrible. Sherlock deduced that it couldn't have been long after his 'death', the doctor had dark circles under his eyes, and his face was gaunt. He looked much older than he was, and his clothes were slightly disheveled, as if he'd just stumbled out of bed to go to work. All these signs pointed to the early stages of grief, and the curly haired man found his fingertips pressing together beneath his chin of their own accord.

"I just had a few questions."

"Yes you all do. But I really am late to work I have to go. Good day." John pushed past the person with the camera and started walking off when they shouted after him.

"How does it feel to know that your best friend lied to you?" In the camera, he could see John stop and stiffen, "Did he have you fooled completely too? Are you mad about his death?"

With military precision he turned and marched back to the person with the camera, his voice measured and cold. "He was not just 'some friend' " The words sounded nasty as John spat them at the man behind the camera. "He was my best friend. He didn't lie to me, and I will never believe the lies Jim Moriarty engineered to force Sherlock Holmes to jump... You shouldn't either. He may not have been perfect, but Sherlock was a better man than this world deserved." He started to turn away when the cameraman asked one more question.

"People say you still believe he's alive out there somewhere. Is that true?" The derogatory tone was evident even second hand. The camera jostled as John grabbed the man by his shirt front and shoved him into something, a car by the sound his body made against the metal door..

"Yes." John stated venomously. "I believe in Sherlock Holmes. He is out there somewhere, biding his time until tossers like you quit smearing his name with your bloody accusations. I know what they say, and I don't care. You've gotten your interview, now do us all a favor and fuck off..." He let the man go with a shove, and turned on his heel, stalking away quickly towards the clinic.

The video came to an end, but it was only one of many. When Sherlock finished several others, he felt like he was going to be sick. After everything John had believed in him the whole time. He felt some unknown emotion pricking the back of his throat. John hadn't believed any of it. He didn't want to, but he knew he had to keep looking, he had to know exactly how bad it had gotten.

Half an hour later, after watching videos and reading as much as his brain would allow, he slowly set the laptop on the floor, that first video had not been the worst by far. Sherlock lifted his legs into his chair, tucking them against his chest, riding out the slight tremors of anger pulsing through him. John had dealt with so much. Being physically and verbally harassed on the streets, publicly on the news, in the papers. They all said he was crazy and delusional. The detective let his head rock forward as the overwhelming need to have John home so that he could reassure himself that the man was here and alright crashed into him. John was becoming his new addiction, and without it, the cravings for more dangerous substances were coming back full force.

He fought it as long as he could, sitting curled up in his chair, knuckles white as he clenched his fists from the effort it took just to keep still, and finally he couldn't take it anymore. He couldn't sit there with those feelings anymore. Rocketing up from his chair, he swept all his usual hiding places for drugs, between the mattress and box springs, behind the sink, in his skull, everywhere, but it seemed John had been very thorough after he'd left. Opening all the cabinets in a feeble attempt to find something, anything, to take his mind away from the horrors he'd discovered, he finally came to the cupboard closest to the fridge and his eyes narrowed when he found the liquor inside. It was mostly whiskey and beer but there were a few half empty bottles of other varying hard liquors. John's drinking problem that he'd read about.

The effects alcohol would have on his brain proved too tempting just now to let the opportunity slip him by. Standing up on his toes he pulled the box of beer from the shelf and one of the tumblers of whiskey. He poured himself a small amount, about the volume of a shot in a clean coffee mug and downed it before deciding on another before abandoning the tumbler and mug, and proceeded back to the living room, box of beer in hand.

When the pair had fallen back into the sofa Mary's efforts had become more insistent. Her tongue quickly found its way between his parted lips, kissing him deeply. She was straddling his hips, pressing against him, encouraging the hardness beginning to tent his trousers. At some point his hands had slipped beneath the back of her tank top, his fingers skimming along her back, dragging the shirt higher up.

Mary's hands trailed down John's chest until she was gripping at his jumper. She tugged at it, as if to show her displeasure that he was still wearing it, but John's mind flitted back to 221b. He was back in Sherlock's bed, their bodies intertwined, his deft fingers holding on to John and John letting him hold on as long as he needed, because he needed it too. But the image was fleeting, as one of Mary's much smaller, more delicate hands snaked down to palm at his member through his trousers, drawing a stifled gasp from the doctor. He pushed the memory of Sherlock aside, desperately trying to focus on Mary. He should want this, there was no reason not to, right?

John was pulled back to reality as the zip of his trousers was pulled down and Mary pulled away, giving him a chaste kiss before sliding down his front, pulling at his trousers and pants as she went.

"I think," she started, pushing his jumper up and pressing hot, open mouthed kisses along his hip bone, "You should stay over."

She looked back up at John through half lidded eyes. His trousers were pulled low on his hips, and he could feel her breath through his cotton pants. There was no reason for John to say no, none at all, except...

Sherlock. The man popped back to the forefront of his mind. He had just managed to get Sherlock back, the last thing he wanted to do was lose him because of some woman. Yes, that was why he was feeling so apprehensive, he reasoned with himself, he just needed time to get used to having the insufferable man back in his life. For the time being, Mary did not fit into that. The doctor had been lost for three years, sinking in his own mind and if it was a choice between a woman and Sherlock the answer was obvious. He needed Sherlock.

Gently sliding back into the couch, moving away from Mary, John began stuttering. "I can't do this, I'm sorry."

He attempted to pull his trousers back into place and, as calmly and politely as he could he tried to explain. "I need to go." He was slightly confused by his own actions, wasn't he John 'three continents' Watson? He almost couldn't believe he was walking away from this, but with the image of waking up wrapped in Sherlock's lanky arms burned into his mind he could hardly look at Mary, let alone shag her.

Bracing herself on the sofa Mary leaned forward catching John and, pressing her lips right below his jawline, "Oh don't leave, I know you want this." Her lips brushed against his skin lightly and she punctuated the statement by rolling her pelvis into his growing erection

Pushing her away more firmly, John untangled himself so he could stand. "No, I'm sorry Mary I really... I shouldn't have done that." His eyes focused on the floor as he buttoned his trousers, mortified that he hadn't stopped things earlier. Mary scrambled to her feet next to him, seemingly aghast.

"No? What the fuck John!" Wrapping her fingers around his wrists she pulled his hands back around her waist pulling them together again. Her lips moved to his neck, but he jerked away quickly.

"I mean it. I'm not interested Mary." His patience was wearing thin as he slipped away, moving towards the door.

She followed after him, a determined look on her face, which to be honest, was dreadfully frightening . When he paused at the door to slip on his shoes she grabbed him by the cuff of his sleeve, wheeling him around. "You won't have another chance with me John." She looked upset, genuinely, and John chewed at his lip for a moment before nodding his head.

"I know."

The taste of the beer had been dreadful, but the effects were better than nothing, and at some point he had gone and retrieved the whiskey bottle and his mug from the kitchen. His brain had pleasantly slowed down enough that he didn't feel like he was going to have an anxiety attack from all the new information he'd discovered. The news was on, talking about Sherlock's sudden return and what this meant. Vaguely he thought that this would be a PR nightmare for his brother, and that thought made him laugh.

He felt wonderfully light in his chair, surrounded by all the cans he'd already drank. Thirteen in total. He leaned his head against the back of the chair, as he was sitting sideways, watching the news with mild disinterest. He wished John were home. The man had been gone a long time, and he was starting to get uncharacteristically lonely. Even though the alcohol was making him happier and more easy-going than normal, it also magnified the emptiness he felt knowing that John was not in the flat. He finished off the can he had been working on, number fourteen, or was it fifteen? The thought that he couldn't remember something so simple because of the influence of the alcohol struck him as intensely funny. He was laughing when he heard the key in the lock and the door opening downstairs.

"John?!" He slurred. It startled him momentarily that he could not detect the nuances of the step to confirm that it was the doctor, but he shook his head and moved to stand. The sudden change in position made all the alcohol run to his head, and he stumbled forward, unable to keep his feet under him, he overcorrected and ended up falling backwards onto his rear on the floor, laughing a little at his folly.

John had returned to the flat, already irritated after his encounter with Mary, to find the stoop of 221b crowded by paparazzi. Thankfully, due to the past few years, John was a professional at pushing through with his head down. By the time John made it in the flat he was so done with the day he barely heard the detectives call. He had been mulling over everything that had transpired since he left her flat, getting nowhere. Even though Sherlock was part of the confusion, all John had wanted was to be home. That being said, throughout the almost hour long taxi ride home John had began to grow irritated, not only with himself, but with the detective. As if Sherlock hadn't done enough damage by jumping off that building, now he was mucking up any chance John had at being normal with whatever it was they were doing.

When John entered the sitting room and glanced in Sherlock's direction as he had to do a double take. He froze just inside the doorway, a myriad of emotions playing across his features, and in the time it took John to see exactly how many cans littered the space around Sherlock his anger morphed into an utter rage.

"What the-? Honestly? Drugs weren't enough? Now this?!" He moved farther into the flat looking about to see if there was anything else he should know about. There were half a dozen cans of beer littered around Sherlock's arm chair and his own bottle of whiskey open on the coffee table. John had already been angry with Sherlock before he had walked in the flat, and the alcohol had given him a reason to unload on the detective.

Sherlock could tell John was mad, but his alcohol addled brain wasn't processing things very quickly. He tried to get up but his limbs wouldn't obey, and by the time he rocked back down to sit, it processed that John was angry that he had been drinking.

Looking up at the doctor who was angrily searching for other drugs or inhibitors around, he suddenly he felt very much like a child that had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He didn't like the feeling and tried to defend himself.

"You left so suddenly" it came out more slurred than he like, and it sounded pathetic even to his own ears, "I was... doing research and you seemed so sad..." he knew he wasn't making sense but he was trying to convey what had happened that had drastically changed since John had been away.

"They were awful to you..." he reached a hand out to catch the doctor as he was passing by, and managed to catch his sleeve, "You're not okay..." he finished. He couldn't tell John in his current state all the things he wanted to tell him, but the small things were getting out. Enough that he knew once John had calmed down, and he had sobered up, they would be talked about and not just pushed to the wayside.

A bit of the anger ebbed away slightly at Sherlocks attempt to explain, but John still pulled his sleeve from his grasp roughly, and Sherlock felt a stab of fear run through him as the doctor pulled away. Combing a hand through his short blond hair he turned to face Sherlock.

"And this is how you wanted to deal with it? Bloody hell I was gone for what? A few hours? Dammit Sherlock!"

Johns hands rose with his voice, the next words caught in his throat so all Sherlock heard was a sharp intake of breath. Dropping his hands he turned away, angrily gathering up the cans that littered the room. Halfway to the kitchen he turned back to the drunken man.

He couldn't decide who he was more angry with, himself or Sherlock, and if his was feelings for the detective were being fueled by anger or pity, "You know what? Sod it. I don't want to hear it." And he didn't. If it had to do with what had happened to himself during Sherlocks hiatus he didn't want to be reminded.

Sherlock pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. "I..." he tried to think of a way to explain himself without sounding like a total idiot. Everything sounded stupid in his head, but he needed to get it out.

"I got sick to my stomach about what I saw... " he felt like he was sobering slightly with all of John's anger sending tendrils of fear that he might leave once more coursing through his body, "I tried John.. All I wanted was for you to come home...I tried... I tried not to think about it. I tried to fight it.. I just... I couldn't..." He looked up at John, eyes glassy and red, but unwavering. John was angry, but he needed to tell him this, he needed John to understand why.

"I'm sorry John..." he whispered, just loud enough for the other to hear,

Seeing Sherlock's carefully constructed defenses falling to pieces in front of him was almost too much for John. Shaking his head he strode from the room, down the hall. He returned with a small trash can and the duvet from Sherlocks bed. As pissed as he was John couldn't leave Sherlock to his own devices.

Jaw set, John made up the sofa for Sherlock while avoiding any eye contact as he moved about the flat. When everything else was done John moved to stand over Sherlock. "Come on." His tone had slipped from anger into utter frustration. "We can have it out in the morning after you've slept it off." His lips were pressed into a straight line as he reached out a hand to help Sherlock to his feet.

Sherlock wasn't sure whether to take the mans hand or not, but since he was offering, and Sherlock wasn't sure he could make it up himself, he took it and allowed John to help him stumble to the couch. Once there he rolled so that his back was to John, curling up and struggling to pull the blanket over himself.

"If you think it best John." He said settling in to try to sleep off the alcohol. Perhaps things would be better in the morning.

John didn't bother responding to Sherlock. Once his flatmate was situated John stomped off to his own room, locking the door behind him. He didn't want to be woken by the detective trying to fix things between them. John wanted to hide out in his room for as long as he pleased, and when they fixed things it would be on John's terms, when he wanted to talk to Sherlock he would.

He hadn't slept in his own room, or by himself for that matter, since Sherlock's return. John stood for a moment, staring resentfully at his small bed. Eye's closed, his hands tangled their way into his hair as his mind attempted to process the days events. He had given up a bloody shag, for what? To make sure nothing upset Sherlock? To keep whatever was going on between them going? John desperately tried to not think about what was happening between him and his flatmate and why he'd given up Mary for him, because if he did he would have to question his entire identity.

In a fit of frustration John swept the assortment of items littering his nightstand to the floor. He stared at the mess for a moment, confused. Relationships aside, John feared for Sherlock as well. The man was haunted by more demons than John could count.

His shoulders dropped as he relaxed slightly after the sudden outburst. After a moment he sat on the edge of the bed, kicked off his shoes, and, not even bothering to change, fell into a restless sleep.

Sherlock winced when he heard everything hit the floor from John's outburst and curled in tighter on himself. He'd really done it this time. He felt awful and all he wanted was to curl up beside his doctor and sleep until things were okay again, but he doubted that would ever happen at this rate.

He turned his face into the pillows wondered how hard he could press his face into it without suffocating. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but it eluded him, only letting him slip into a shallow doze.

**A/N: **Reviews keep us going. 3 show us some love guys...

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	13. Secrets

It wasn't long before John's dreams turned to nightmares. He was back in Afghanistan, the gunfire ringing in his ears. The soldier lying on the ground in front of him was bleeding profusely soaking through his uniform, there was no saving him John had to move on. He had to keep moving, there was someone he had to save. If he didn't hurry they would be dead too. The air shook with gunfire and it felt as though he was running in quicksand. John could see him, in the distance, his coat billowing behind him.

But then there was a figure behind him, John tried to yell out. To warn him of the dark figure approaching, but his friend just smiled down at him, refusing to move, refusing to save himself. The gunshots faded and John was staring up at St. Barts again, the figure was getting closer. John tried calling out again, begging the man to turn around. When all the sounds of war had faded John felt shell shocked, the world was silent, but he could feel the air ringing around him in anticipation. Desperate, he tried to call out again, but it was as if he was drowning and the words wouldn't form.

Sherlock wasn't sure how long he'd slept, but he woke sometime later to an unknown noise. Coming into awareness, he listened harder for what it was that woke him. A cry rang out in the flat startling him the rest of the way awake. John!

He struggled to extricate himself from the blankets and ended up knocking himself to the floor, tipping the empty wastebasket over noisily, with the blankets wrapped around his legs. It took a moment for his groggy brain to work well enough for him to pull them free, and when he did, he folded them beneath himself trying to get to his feet. When he made it, he was still wobbly, but he made it to the stairs without any major problems. However, when he reached the base, another sound that Sherlock could only categorize as a terrified scream forced him to work faster. He tried to hurry up the stairs but lost his footing and cracked his face against the stairs.

Blinking away the pain, he shook his head and made his way to his feet once more, ignoring the blood that began gushing from his injured nose. The dizziness from the alcohol and his fall was causing black spots to dance in his vision. He made it up the stairs and landed heavily against John's door as another sound of agony was wrenched from his friend.

"John!" He called reaching for the knob. It didn't turn. Locked. "John!" He called again, banging his fist on the door. Another stomach churning cry made his legs go weak, and he slid down the wall to his knees, leaning his head against the door jamb, beating the door with his fist one more time as the alcohol in his blood sapped all of his strength.

"Goodbye John."

No. John could feel himself racing to the body on the ground, mangled and broken, but it felt wrong. This wasn't right. He looked up and he saw the dark figure leaning over the edge of the building. It was laughing at him.

"John."

The world around him was fading, and John felt like he was drowning again. He could hear Sherlock calling out to him, but he had just fallen. Trying to remind himself that none of it was real John fought his body for consciousness.

Sherlock was sitting just outside the room, he felt so helpless. This is what his addiction did to him, it made him useless. With an angry growl he slammed his head against the wall, absolutely hating himself.

Finally John awoke, gasping for breath, his body was covered in a cold sweat. He hadn't had a nightmare that bad in months. The nightmare he'd had the night Sherlock had returned hadn't compared. Taking a moment to reorient himself John lay still, until he realized it had been something outside of the room that had woken him. Standing carefully John unlocked the door and pulled it open. A small gasp escaped his lips at the sight.

"Shit, Sherlock what happened?" John dropped to his knees, cupping Sherlock's chin in his hand to turn his head back and forth, inspecting the damage. There was blood across his face, clearly from a bloody nose, it looked as though he'd been in a fight, but his droopy eyes said the alcohol was still weighing on him.

"You cried out in your sleep..." He said softly, raising a hand to bat John's away, but it was clumsy and sluggish and didn't do more than swat at air. "I was worried you were hurt... You sounded awful..." He took a labored breath and reached out enough to grab his arm.

"I tried to come get to you... But it seems the stairs and gravity were against me. Your door was locked... And I couldn't get to you..." He squeezed Johns arm gently, his eyes glassy, worried, and tired, "Never mind about me. Are you alright? You sounded like someone was hurting you."

Even though his brain was befuddled with alcohol, his eyes flickered over the doctor's body and face for any signs of physical injury. Save for the sheen of sweat across his skin John looked exactly the same as he had when he'd left Sherlock out on the sofa.

Wrapping both arms around Sherlock's shoulders John pulled the still drunk man against him. It took all his self control to still the tears that threatened him. "Oh you pathetic sod," his words were light, "I'm fine." John's face was buried against Sherlock's curls, his arms wrapped tightly around the thin shoulders pressing them together, he ignored the smell of booze that surrounded them. Sherlock cared. He was drunk, they had just fought, but John had cried out from the nightmares that haunted him and Sherlock had been there. Again.

Sherlock relaxed into the embrace, and when John buried his face into his hair he sighed and raised a weary hand to the back of his neck, holding him there to prove he only wanted to help.

They stayed like that until John pulled away a few moments later, returning to inspect the damage as he had before, as if nothing had happened. Standing, his voice riddled with concern John reached out a hand to pull Sherlock to his feet. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up."

Pulling Sherlock to his feet, the man helping him as much as he could, John wrapped an arm around his thin waist and they made their way down stairs. It was an arduous task, but soon enough they had made it to the bathroom. John set Sherlock up on the toilet while he cleaned the dried blood away with a damp wash cloth, a scene that was becoming far too familiar. The detective sat as still as he could as the flannel was swiped across his face, but after a moment, he closed his eyes and leaned into John's hand, his now clean nose brushing over the pulse point. One shaky hand came up to hold the doctor's warm palm against his face.

"Are you going to leave?" He hadn't meant for the words to come out of his mouth, but there they were between them now, and he couldn't bring himself to meet John's gaze.

Rubbing small circles against the pale cheekbone with his thumb, where his hand was pressed to cup Sherlock's cheek he spoke softly. "No. I'll be cleaning all of the alcohol out of the flat in the morning, but I'm not going anywhere Sherlock." Pulling his hand away John finished wiping away the blood, there wasn't any permanent damage at least. "Stay here." he muttered, smoothing the hair off of Sherlock's forehead before heading to the kitchen.

John returned moments later with a glass of water and two small round tablets. "Drink up, then we can head back to bed." He held out the water with one hand, the tablets in the other.

Sherlock couldn't help the wave of relief at the 'we' in John's sentence as he took the tablets and swallowed them along with most of the water. He felt more sure of his feet now, but he didn't stand right away. Instead he wrapped one lean arm around John's waist and pulled him close, tucking his head against the man's stomach and holding him close. John stood surprised for a moment, and then placed a hand on the back of Sherlock's neck, his fingers nestled in the dark curls soothingly.

"John there's something I need to tell you." His entire body was shaking as he spoke. He knew he'd never have the courage to tell John otherwise, but even now he feared what the doctor might say. "I... Need to tell you about the past few years." John didn't dare speak, for fear that it would make Sherlock stop talking.

Sherlocks arms tightened around his middle as if he were afraid the other man would run away, "I spent three years trying to find every one of Moriarty's men. I let some... Hurt me... I killed some too..." He squeezed his eyes shut and pushed onwards, "I didn't want to tell you... You always thought so highly of me. It's rare for a protagonist to be so dark, and you always wanted me to be the hero. For once I wanted to fill that role for you John."

He pressed his face fully into the doctor's stomach and gripped him tight. The thought of disappointing John caused a surprisingly gut wrenching feeling.

Breathing a heavy sigh of relief John wrapped his other arm around the top of Sherlock's shoulders, the hand on his neck moved up to card through his hair softly. He had feared Sherlock would wait too long to tell him, or that he would never feel safe enough to tell that secret. John spoke softly as he held onto the other man just as tightly "It's okay Sherlock. I could never hate you. We'll get you through this. I promise."

He knew Sherlock was still rather drunk and his emotions were running high, but he didn't want this to end. Not the pain or the emotional havoc of course, he'd give anything to put a stop to all of that, but how close him and Sherlock were. He realized this was why he had walked out on Mary. He wanted to stay, holding onto his flatmate, his friend, and at that moment, it didn't matter why. John suddenly regretted his reaction the night before, everything Sherlock had been through and he'd just walked out on him. He knew Sherlock needed, above all else, help, and that wasn't something he was well versed in asking for.

"I'm not really tired, but would you mind laying down with me? My head is starting to spin, and I feel the calm you seem to exude for me would help. " he pulled back finally look at John, "I'm sure it would benefit you too as it seems you lack in nightmares when you sleep by my side."

John smiled softly, "I was sort of counting on that Sherlock. I..." It was his turn for confessions, swallowing hard he continued, "You're right. I won't be able to get back to sleep on my own, not after that nightmare." It was a miniscule admission in comparison to Sherlock's, but it was John's way of saying he needed Sherlock just as much as Sherlock needed him.

Helping him to his feet, John led them across the hall and into Sherlock's room. "Sherlock," John started softly once he had closed the door. "I'm sorry, for earlier. I should have listened to you, I shouldn't have locked myself in my room like..." like a petulant child, he thought to himself, "like that."

The detective curled up under the blankets and held his arm out showing John that he was welcome beside him. "Don't apologize John." he said shaking his head. "You had every right to be angry. Now get over here and lay down before something else happens..." he was only half joking, and let his arm fall back to the mattress.

With the apology off his chest John relaxed and clambered into the bed next to Sherlock. It had become a sort of trick, trying to figure out just how close he was supposed to be to the other, waiting for a thin arm to snake round and pull him closer. John lay with his back to Sherlock, he could feel the other's body weighing into the bed directly behind him and he closed his eyes, contented.

Even though he enjoyed the smaller man in his arms, with everything that had happened tonight, Sherlock wanted to feel John's arms around him as well. The remnants of what he remembered coming out of his first withdrawal with John's arms circling him, and then again at his brother's home were warm in his mind. He knew that space between them was John's tentative homosexual barrier. The doctor always left the decision up to him, as if the lack of control gave him more peace in his own mind, and at times it was irritating, but times like now, it gave him the perfect opportunity.

Leaning forward just a bit, he wrapped a lanky arm around John's hips, grabbing the one that was resting on the mattress and pulling out and up, showing the smaller man that he wanted him to roll over. When his demands were met, he scooted closer, and moved down so that his curly head was just tucked under the other's chin.

"I know we don't usually do it this way..." he trailed off as he snuck an arm underneath John's body, and the other curved over his hips, drawing small patterns on his spine, "But, when I woke this way before, your heartbeat kept my mind clear. Both of our nerves are high tonight... and I think it would be better to wake this way." His voice was unsure as he finished, hoping the other man wouldn't run away frightened like he had the first time.

Resting his chin against Sherlock John slowly conceded, wrapping his arms around Sherlock, tucking the taller man against him. It was different, but John found he rather enjoyed holding Sherlock like this. They would get through all of this, they had to. John was acutely aware of the dexterous fingers tracing shapes into his skin and finally, in the silence of their embrace, John found himself contemplating what it was they were doing.

The thoughts and questions that rolled through his mind were surprisingly calmer than they had been before, the soothing touch kept him grounded. Unfortunately, as John clutched the younger man to his chest he could come up with no understable definition for what their relationship had morphed into. They would have to talk about it eventually, John mused, but not yet. It wasn't long before John drifted off to sleep, Sherlock still wrapped in his arms.

The detective continued his small drawings on the doctor's back long after he'd fallen asleep. He enjoyed the moment that all of John's muscles relaxed as he fell asleep. It was a small victory that he could make the other man so comfortable. Sherlock nuzzled in the hollow of his throat almost unconsciously as he reflected on how this one man had barreled into his life and completely changed it. Sherlock had been so affected by this man that he didn't know how to live life without him anymore. Even in the past three years the thing that had driven him was that he would see John again soon, and, to be fair, no one could really describe his recent history as living, just surviving.

He took a deep breath, breathing in the scent of his blogger and letting it wrap him in a warm cocoon of safe and comfortable. The rhythmic in and out of his breathing along with the gentle sleep sounds of the man that held him close lulled him off to sleep.

Sherlock woke and instantly knew something was different. Cataloguing everything before opening his eyes made him aware of the slight pounding headache in his temples, his mouth was dry as the sahara, and his limbs all felt heavy. The Alcohol... right he thought. The next thing he realized was that a weight was pressing on his chest and arm.

Opening his eyes, he saw the messy blonde bedhead of John resting on his chest. Sherlock's arm was looped low around his back, hand resting on the curve of the smaller man's hip. One of John's legs was threaded through his own and his arm was wrapped around Sherlock's waist. The doctor seemed peaceful, no evidence of nightmares across his face, just warmth. The detective felt himself smiling as he brought his other hand up to brush tousled hair out of his face and card his fingers through the soft texture. When he reached the base of John's neck his hand rest there, playing with the silky strands as he waited for the smaller man to wake up. Absently his mind told him he wouldn't mind the doctor taking his time, because here, now... he felt blissfully happy, for no reason he could fathom.

The first thing John noticed as he slowly slipped into consciousness was the pleasant sensation on the back of his neck. Pressing his face deeper into Sherlock's chest he hummed sleepily, enjoying the sensation, but not quite awake enough to register what was going on. In his sleep induced haze John's arm wrapped tighter around Sherlock's torso, as his hand tucked under the detective's side he felt his fingers brush against the cool skin of the detective's exposed hip. His eyes snapped open, now absurdly aware of their embrace. Tearing himself away, a bit too quickly, John pulled his body up so he was sitting with his knees pulled towards his chest. His face buried in the palms of his hands.

Waking up so caught in Sherlock's embrace, finding himself reaching out for the intimacy, had shaken John. His thoughts flitted back to what they were and what the hell they were doing. Not wanting to face it just yet John muttered, without raising his face from his hands, "I have work today." and then stealing a glance at the small alarm clock next to the bed John groaned and swung his legs off the edge and onto the floor, "And I'm late. Shit."

Sherlock tried to force the pained expression from his face that came from John's sudden removal from his side, but he didn't succeed very well. He wasn't really sure how to handle the situation but, he gestured to the bags near his closet. "I hadn't put your clothes away, they're just there..." He moved to the other side of the bed, standing and feeling a little awkward as he did so. The sudden separation had stripped the warm all encompassing feeling he'd just had, and it was such a stark contrast it made his head spin.

"John..." he gave himself a moment to gather his thoughts and broach this subject in the best way possible, without irritating the other man further. "You're always so content, latching on to me like that in the middle of the night, your subconscious mind obviously finds comfort in our closeness, but the moment you wake you are so volatile and against it. Why do you fight something your own body seeks out?" He was truly befuddled by the actions of his flatmate. He could take one look at him, deduce everything he needed to know physically, but when it came to his irrational deprivation, Sherlock doubted he would ever understand it.

John quickly began digging through the bags of clothes, he considered taking the bags back to his room, but something stopped him. If he wasn't sleeping in there any more was he supposed to keep his clothes here, where he was sleeping? The thought just wrought more conflict in his mind. He paused though as Sherlock posed his question, John's head slipped forward a bit as he tried to think of anyway to answer him. Settling on a pair of clothes John stood to face Sherlock, it felt odd staring at each other from across the room.

"It's just," John started before inhaling sharply and shaking his head. "It's complicated Sherlock." He didn't want to have this conversation yet, partially because he was leaving for work and they needed more time than they currently had, but mostly because John was afraid that if they tried to label what was going on between them, if John pointed out the absurdities of their actions then they would stop. That was the last thing John wanted.

Sweeping from the bedroom John headed for his own to change, hoping Sherlock would let the subject lie, but of course, he did followed him up the stairs at a fast pace, his usual lack of acknowledgement for personal space creeping up again. "It's not complicated John. You always make things seem so difficult when they are simple." He saw the irony in saying that, considering he had been the one to fall for something simple by trying to make it complicated.

"You run away whenever things get hard, John. Frankly, I'm contracting whiplash from your actions. Normally you would be the situation would be reversed, but since I have come back, my general disposition has been pretty constant, you however have been all over the place. You curl up next to me, you want to comfort me and help me, but the moment I try to do the same for you it's like you internally blanch. You push me away. Is it because I've done something to upset you? Have I caused you so much emotional distress that you can't let me return that which you are so keen on giving me? Normally I can read you like a bloody bedtime story but now it's like you've been written in a language I don't know..." He was getting frustrated now, and his voice became elevated.

"Why are you so afraid?" His jaw was set as he stopped, just inside of John's door now, worried that if the man got too far away from him he might not be able to get through to him.

John threw his clothes to the bed and began searching through his drawers for shorts. Avoiding any eye contact with Sherlock, lest he chose that moment to read John's emotions. Finding a pair of shorts and throwing them onto the bed with the rest of his clothes John began pacing about the room, shaking his head. Finally he faced Sherlock. "You. . . You haven't done anything to upset me, and I'm not afraid. It's complicated Sherlock," John repeated shaking his head as he pinched his brow between his forefinger and thumb, "Don't you see that?" John's brow furrowed as he looked up at detective, "There is no reasonable bloody explanation for what is going on in my life right now. But I'm dealing with it and I'll be damned if you're going to try and say I run away when things get difficult, not after the last few days. You can't Sherlock, you just can't."

"You've stuck around for the hard stuff that I'll agree to, but you're filling up your time with me and what I need, but any time we broach the subject of you or what's been going on in your life for the past three years it's got to be a god damn bloody secret!" He was getting angered which was very unlike him, and he would blame it away later on the headache pounding through his temples now. He couldn't stand the fact that John was putting the detective before himself. Not like this.

"You want me to tell you, you pester me about what's been going on, and granted you have reason to be upset at me, but you change the subject anytime you are mentioned, you get upset when anyone tries to talk about it and you push me away when I know it's good for you! What?! Am I just not allowed to CARE?!" The last was a shout that startled even himself. His chest was puffed up, and his feet were spread, he was staring John down in a way he never had before.

John held his ground, glaring up at Sherlock, but it only lasted seconds before John's shoulders fell. He stood in front of Sherlock, defeated, shaking his head. "Just sod it, I'm not mad at you. I need to get ready for work. You mind?" His eyes flicked towards the door, gesturing for Sherlock to leave. He couldn't be mad at Sherlock, because frankly, he was right on just about every count.

Sherlock's face was totally expressionless as he turned to go, grabbing the knob. He was almost out when he stopped, not even bothering to look at John when he spoke.

"I'm not the only one that needs help healing after the past three years..." And with that, he slammed the door behind him.

John threw his head back letting out a frustrated groan as the door slammed closed. Looking back down at the clock he hurried to change into the new clothes, it was sure to gather some attention at work. And then, as if he didn't have enough tearing at his emotions, John realized that going to work meant he was going to have to face Mary. He could not believe how much his life had been upheaved in the past three days.

Once he had dressed John shot a text off to Sarah, apologizing for being late and promising to explain once he was there. She didn't respond, but John was sure she had seen the news reports, she would know Sherlock was back. The thought actually made John laugh, how typical that was, John missing work thanks to Sherlock. The normality made him smile softly. Slipping his phone back into the pocket of his new fitting denim trousers John made his way down stairs. He found sherlock dressed in the snug black jeans and plaid button down from the day before, legs curled up in his chest, violin in his lap, plucking the strings of his violin and tuning it expertly with deft fingers.

Avoiding the previous blowout John spoke, "Can you promise me something? Promise me that you're done with it all. The drugs, the alcohol. If we want to move forward I need you to do that for me." The doctor had calmed down considerably as he stood waiting for Sherlock's response, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, chewing at the corner of lip.

"No." His answer was sharp and short. His anger was still ripping strong through his veins, and he needed to calm down. The Stradivarius in his hands helped marginally, but what he really wanted was something he'd never imagined crossing his mind. He wanted John to leave. He wanted him to go to work and leave the detective with his mind for a while, to process some of the things he'd been pushing to the side in favor of his company, but mostly he just wanted to calm down from the uncharacteristic rage that was just under the surface of his features.

"No?" An incredulous expression crossed John's face. "Sherlock, what's the point of all this if you aren't planning on getting clean? I need to know that you'll be here, be sober, when I get home." His pulse picked up again, the small calm he had managed to hold onto dissipating quickly, John's irritation and anger could be read easily by the detective as his lips pressed into a hard line.

He glanced up at the man. Bad move, the expression there fanned the flames burning in his chest. He hated the pain he saw there, hated the doubt and lack of faith he saw. Was this what John really thought? Feeling rather hateful he responded with something he knew would send the doctor out the door with his tail between his legs.

"After everything that has happened, out of all the painstaking efforts I have gone through to try prove to you that I am back and willing to change... After all that I'm doing and have done to show you that I am worth trusting again why on earth would I want to make you a promise I am unsure I can keep? No Doctor Watson I will not make you that promise when it is likely that I will relapse at some point. I do not intend to, but as last night proved, you are not always around to keep my better half at the forefront." He turned back to the tuning of his violin.

"Good day." The dismissal was forceful and final, the plinks of the strings echoing the harshness of his words.

John froze, grinding his teeth together as he fought the desire to lash back out at Sherlock. Finally he turned to leave, his pulse pounding in his head. "Fine," he cut sharply, "I'll be home at three, try and hold yourself together till then eh?" He didn't wait for a response. At the foot of the stairs he stopped, hanging his head defeatedly he pressed his back to the wall. He knew Sherlock had a point, it was very likely that the previous night wouldn't be the last time Sherlock would slip, and he had been trying. God Sherlock had been doing more than trying, John shook his head as he pushed off the wall and moved to leave. He had barely taken a step toward the door when he heard a familiar tutting behind him.

"John dear, everything alright?"

Of course, Mrs. Hudson was home from her sister's, she had no idea what had transpired during her absence. John mulled over the fact that the timing of her trip had been oddly convenient before turning to face her. One hand raised to cup the back of his neck nervously. Ignoring her question John smiled warmly at her, "How was your trip?"

She began chattering away about her weekend easily and comfortably, giving John a moment to decide how to tell her who was waiting upstairs. He was so lost in thought he didn't notice that she had finished speaking until she repeated his name.

"John?" Her head was cocked to the side in concern, "You sure everything is alright? There were a few people waiting out on the street when I got home this morning. It looked like the press again, did something happen?"

Glad he had already warned Sarah he'd be late John nodded, "Yeah everything's fine. Just. . . " He breathed out heavily, moving to put a hand on her shoulder tentatively as he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. "Sorry, this is difficult to say, but Sherlock. . He's back. The jump was fake. He was forced to, but he's back, upstairs actually... I'm so sorry to tell you like this Mrs. H."

She fixed him with a look that clearly said she worried for his mental status, but John just shook his head. "I have to get to work. You can head up and see him if you'd like, but he's a bit touchy this morning." John rolled his eyes at this, hoping the detective would show some mercy to the poor woman. "Mind if I slip out through the back? Those people would be reporters and I don't want to deal with that this morning." She nodded slowly, still obviously worrying for him. Giving her a quick peck on the cheek John rushed out through her kitchen, hailing a cab out on the street before the reporters caught sight of him, his mind still terribly overwhelmed.

**A/N: **

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	14. How to Save Life

Mrs. Hudson watched John's retreating form, shaking her head. She had hoped that they were finally past this stage in John's mourning, that he was getting better. Stealing a sad glance up the stairs she turned away, letting out sad sigh as she walked towards her own door.

Sherlock had heard John conversing with someone, likely Mrs. Hudson. He thought it odd that he hadn't seen her yet, but he had assumed she had been on one of her bingo trips, or off visiting her sister and had just returned. After hearing the door slam, he stood and, having already rosined his bow, began to play in quick angry strokes. His music as always, reflecting his mood.

Mrs. Hudson froze a few feet from her own door, her breath caught tightly in her chest and a hand rose to cover her mouth as a gasp escaped. Very slowly, she turned on the spot and walked toward the stairs. She stood at the bottom listening to the harsh tones bellowing from the upstairs flat. A part of her didn't want to go upstairs, frightened by what she would find. He couldn't be alive. Curiosity finally won out and she ascended the stairs at a painfully slow pace, leaning heavily on the rail for both physical and emotional support.

Barely a minute later she was standing at the cracked door, the music spilled from the room and she could feel the emotion in the strokes, but she hesitated there. Her hand rested on the door knob, torn between learning the truth and holding onto the present. Taking a shaky breath she pushed the door open a little farther, a small cry escaped her lips as she spotted the familiar man tearing into the violin.

As he settled into the flow of his music, the angry notes reflected the chaotic mess that was his mind. His fingers skittered over the strings his arm slicing back and forth in quick harsh motions, murdering the anger burning inside of him. Each stroke made him feel a little better until the melody slowed into somber almost melancholy piece. As he slowed, he found himself beginning to move with the music, spinning slightly as he maneuvered around the chairs and couch.

The older woman stood there, a hand pressed to her lips as she watched his movements in awe and disbelief. A few stray tears slipped from her eyes as the music morphed into something else, each stroke of his bow wrenching at her heart.

"Sherlock?!" When she found her voice, the tone mimicked that of the tone she had used so many times before when she had found obscene body parts in the fridge, or half finished experiments spilling out onto her carpet. She leaned heavily against the doorframe, her body betraying her as she tried to process the sight before her.

Sherlock was in the middle of a long note, his body sliding to the side slowly as he held it when Mrs. Hudson's exclamation cut him short. Turning, he saw her leaning against the doorjamb, tears running down her face. His arms lowered to his sides, the bow and Stradivarius hanging a little limp in his hands. He set them down together on his chair and turned, moving towards her.

"Hello Mrs. Hudson." he said, holding his arms out to her, "It's been a long time..."

Her breath hitched dangerously as she stepped forward. She reached one hand out, letting it sit, shaking, against Sherlock's hand. Reality crashed over her and she stepped into the outstretched arms. "Sherlock, what am I going to do with you?" Her voice cracked with emotion, but her tone was as doting and motherly as it had always been.

Sherlock enveloped the small woman into his arms and pulled her to his chest. As eccentric and absolutely irritating as she could be, he cared for her quite deeply. She was more of a mother to him than his own sometimes.

"Oh I don't know, perhaps a nice cuppa and a chat?" he asked trying to lighten the mood.

She pulled away, wiping the stray tears as she chuckled softly. Her lips twitched, threatening her stoic appearance. "Of course dear," and then with a smirk she added, "but just this once, I'm still not your housekeeper."

Fussing slightly she wiped at her eyes again. "Oh sit, sit," she insisted as she hurried off to the kitchen, familiar with where John kept the tea, and began bustling about.

Sherlock moved his violin and bow back into the case and took a seat on the couch so that Mrs. Hudson could sit beside him. He was sure she had questions, but her reaction was much better than he had anticipated. He cared for her so very much, and he knew that she had been hurt as well. Unlike Angelo, she was not as aware of his ways of coming and going, but also unlike John, she knew he would be who he was, and that it wasn't worth getting angry at him over it.

She returned shortly with a cup of tea for each of them. Handing one to Sherlock she sat gingerly on the couch beside him, her eyes still glistening as she gripped her own cup desperately as though it held the answer to all of her questions. When she did speak she was shaking a little, "I'm sorry dear, I just don't understand." Her eyes rose to meet Sherlock's every interrogative begging to be answered. Her mouth opened again, wordlessly, unsure where to start.

"Mrs. Hudson..." he set his cup of tea down, untouched and took one of her hands in his, "Moriarty threatened me. Everyone had to believe I jumped or... He had snipers on everyone I hold dear Mrs. Hudson, you, John, and Lestrade. There was no other way. I had to stay away. They had to think I was dead, but in that time I've been making things safe for all of you." He let his free hand come up to brush the new tears away from her eyes.

"I'm here to stay now. For the foreseeable future I have no reason to leave." There was no need to worry her over the 'copycat' as the Yard was calling it.

Nodding quickly she sipped at the scalding tea, processing everything. A sort of calm fell over her. Unlike most others, she'd always been able to see this good in Sherlock, it was easy for her to accept that he'd left to protect those few people that he cared for. She had learned long ago not to question the detectives reasoning or ways of doing things. Instead she focused on what he'd left behind. "You better be here to stay Sherlock," her voice had steadied as she spoke, "You can't do that to him again." She had watched John spiral out of control for the past three years, good intentions aside, it had destroyed him.

"I've seen a little of what the press and unsupportive people had done to him through the internet. However he won't talk to me about it. I suppose he doesn't want to and I don't really blame him. I was gone for a long time... How... was he alright?" He hated the way his throat closed when he asked her that question, and he looked away as he cleared it.

"Mycroft told me he wasn't handling it well, but from what I've seen he sorely understated the truth."

Unaware of just how affected Sherlock was by John's torment she simply grimaced slightly before beginning to divulge. "He was just destroyed luv. He just sat up there, staring at the empty flat for weeks on end. I couldn't get him to do anything." She shook her head, tears pricking at her eyes again as she thought back, "He stayed with his sister for a while after the funeral, said he couldn't be back in the flat. Your brother kept paying for it though, said he wanted things to be the same when John changed his mind, and he did." She paused, taking a sip of the tea still in her hands.

"People were just cruel Sherlock, he could barely go to work. God he could barely step outside without being attacked. It was mostly verbal, they would follow him, harassing him. But there were a few days when he would come home early. Your brother or that lovely detective friend of yours would drop him off. Gregory told me later, he'd been attacked." She stopped, her head dropped and she wiped away the fresh tears. In her eyes, John needed the help and support. He'd been through hell during Sherlock's absence and if John wasn't willing to talk about it then someone had to tell Sherlock.

"Someone physically assaulted him?!" Sherlock asked, his anger rising once more. "Someone attacked him on his way HOME?" He stood then, and began pacing. He was grumbling to himself as he moved back and forth before the woman, his mind going a mile a minute.

"Mrs. Hudson I need you to tell me everything, I need you to tell me everything he won't." When he turned to her then, his eyes were intense, and burned with an angry fire. John had not even mentioned any of this, and he was going to find out everything he could.

Startled by Sherlock's reaction she set her tea down on the table, "He wasn't badly hurt dear. Your brother kept a very close eye on him, they were able to find him before anything came of it." She stopped there, unsure how much she should be telling Sherlock if John hadn't been sharing any of this, but she decided, for John's sake, to continue, "After John was caught on film saying he thought you were alive there were mixed reactions. There was so much hate Sherlock. I was able to bin of most of the horrible letters before John saw them, but when he left the house on his own, there was little that could be done. People either wanted him to tell everyone where you were hiding, or mocked him." She wrung her hands nervously in her lap, "Yes, there were a few times where people became violent about it all. But like I said, somehow your brother always knew what was going on. The worst he got was shaken up. He normally stayed home for a few days after those run-ins."

Sherlock ran a hand over his face. This was all his fault. All of this, all the craziness and the hate, it was all his fault and John had been caught in the middle of it. He didn't know why but he hadn't thought John would be a part of all the fallout at all. That was why he'd lied to John in the first place, make John a victim of Sherlock's lies so that the public didn't see him as a conspirator. He carded a hand through his curls, pulling at them slightly, his fingers shaking so violently that his silky locks slipped through his fingers. Instead he moved them to his ribs where they picked up the tapping rhythm that had become so familiar to him over the past few days.

"Oh you stupid prat..." he muttered to himself, not really realizing that he'd said it out loud, "Mrs. Hudson.. this is much worse than I thought. Worse than even the websites said. They didn't mention him being physically assaulted."

"It hasn't been so bad as of late dear," she assured him, worry creeping into her voice at Sherlock's reaction. It was obvious that he really hadn't known anything, "Things have settled down, you just can't leave him again."

"And I don't plan to, but I fear I may have said some things that I would not have if I had been aware... How could I not have known... how could I not have seen..." He started pacing again until his hands threaded tightly through his hair, and he lifted his head up, stopping in front of his land lady.

"How can I ever make things better?" He dropped to his knees in front of her and gripped her hands in his, eyes serious and pleading. "How can I... How can I ever fix him? I thought everything would be fine, but John didn't stick to the plan. He was supposed to believe that I was dead." The overwhelming emotions were building inside him once again. He was so angry with the world and himself for not taking care of John. "Why couldn't he just forget about me like everyone else? How can I possibly repair the damage I've done."

Mrs. Hudson gently smoothed his hair from his face, then cupped Sherlock's cheek in her hand. She smiled sadly at him, she had known Sherlock cared deeply for John, perhaps more than anyone, but it was heart wrenching to see the despair it all caused him. "He just needs you to be there for him dear. He really did believe in you Sherlock... I think it's time you return that."

Work had gone just about as well as John expected it to. Mary had spent most of the day either avoiding him or shooting him angry looks, Sarah had demanded some sort of explanation for Sherlock's sudden reappearance, and the clinic inexplicably acquired a few new patients all of which were desperate for John to be their primary doctor. The day had left very little time for John to think about his predicament with Sherlock, but as he unlocked the door to 221B he tensed, remembering how he'd left earlier that day. He quietly made his way up the stairs, bracing himself for whatever version of Sherlock he was about to find.

Sherlock stood by the window in his normal composing place, playing a sombre tune that reflected the crashing waves of emotion inside of him. He jotted down a few notes on the blank score on his music stand

In the middle of the living room, a kitchen chair and card table had been set up with all the necessary tools for what was in store for them. An electric razor, a pair of scissors, and two separate boxes of chemicals, one to change the color of his hair, the other to chemically remove the curl from his hair. A few towels sat in the chair, and a few newspapers were spread out on the floor to catch whatever mess they made. Also sitting on the table was a steaming cup of tea in John's mug, as if it had just been placed there for him only moments before.

Sherlock didn't stop playing when he heard the key in the lock, just continued composing, closing his eyes and letting the melody fill his achingly empty chest.

John gazed around the room, from Sherlock, ostensibly lost in his own world, to the table and it's contents. Hanging up his coat John walked over and touched the side of the mug, it was hot to the touch. He was startled by the gesture and his heart swelled slightly, but the tone of the song quickly squelched his happiness. His brow furrowed as he listened to the emotions pouring from the instrument.

"Sherlock?" He took a few steps closer so he was only arms length away from the man, "Is everything alright?"

The detective finished the long note he'd been holding and the bow made a high pitched whipping noise as he flipped it back under his arm and jotted down the remaining notes he had played. Turning to look at John then he removed the violin from his shoulder.

"Fine." the short response was not cold and curt like his earlier response, but soft and ventured deeper than a four letter word should. His tone explained that he really had no desire to talk about it. He put the violin in it's case and moved to the chair, putting the towels in his lap. "I'm sure you've had a long day, sit, drink your tea. We can wait to get started."

Following Sherlock back to the table John took the tea and fell into the sofa, regarding the man in front of him curiously. It was a complete turnaround from the mornings argument. He took a drink from the mug and smiled softly into it, remembering Sherlock's explanation for remembering how he took his tea. "So," John started, the calm weighing on him eerily, "how was your day then?" The question sounded absurd, even to John.

Sherlock sat in the chair, his fingers steepled and resting against his lips. "It was fine." His response again said he didn't exactly wish to talk about it. He had stewed on Mrs. Hudson's words all day long, and he was feeling particularly sour about it all. He wanted to be angry, he wanted to be so many things, but he refused to let any of it cross his face. All he knew was that there were things that needed to be done, and that he had a feeling that when John dug his fingers into his hair to start cutting it or whatever else they had planned to do to it, that all the chaos would calm. John's touch still cleared his mind and allowed him to think about certain things without distraction.

He didn't want to speak much until he could tame the growling inside of him, because he did not want to lose control like he had earlier. What he had said to John was inexcusable given the new information that had come to light.

"Alright." John nodded, and began drinking the tea a bit faster, not wanting to stretch out the painful silence. John could sense the change in Sherlock's mood, but there was little he could actually infer from the detectives actions. Finishing the tea John walked over to the table, setting the empty cup out of the way. Turning one of the boxes over in his hands he spoke, trying to keep the mood light. "You ready?"

He desperately hoped the sour mood wasn't still from their argument. Thankfully the tea argued against that, it had seemed like a sort of peace offering.

Sherlock sighed and tipped his head back to finally look a John. "We might as well get the foul thing over." He turned and looked at the boxes and hair cutting supplies beside them. There was a spray bottle and comb there as well.

"Are you going to cut it first or the... Chemical genocide?" It was his attempt at humor. The nearness of John did make him feel slightly better, and he was ready for all these shenanigans to be over. He'd smartly changed from his new clothes into some old pajamas so that any stray chemicals would not be damaging his clothes.

John laughed easily at Sherlocks small joke, "Cuttings last, all the chemicals are sure to wreak havoc on your hair. Hopefully I can cut out the dead ends." John walked behind Sherlock and carded his hands through the dark locks affectionately. He felt a sort of sadness, John had never before realized how much he liked Sherlock's hair, and he really hoped he didn't ruin it. As if he was just noticing the intimacy of the touch John pulled his hand back, blushing slightly. "I'll just go change, and then we can start."

He swept from the room without looking back. Changing into an old t shirt and sweats John tried to relax, hoping Sherlock hadn't found his actions odd. Little did John know Sherlock had relished in the delicious feeling of those fingers carding through his hair. The anger was sapped out of him by John's touch, and when they left he had had to fight down a groan of dissatisfaction. When the doctor returned he grabbed the closest box, a chemical straightener, and began reading the directions. "You're gonna want to wrap that towel around your shoulders."

At John's request, Sherlock wrapped the towel around his shoulders, safely covering his clothing and the exposed skin of his lower neck. He found himself longing for the feel of those hands in his hair once more and had to clamp down on that thought before it got out of control.

Tearing the cardboard open John read over the directions carefully before moving to stand behind Sherlock, setting up the supplies so they were within reach, then biting nervously at the inside of his cheek he rested his hand on the bit of exposed skin between the towel and Sherlock's hair line. "Ready?" There was no going back once they started.

"Unfortunately. How many times must you ask before you realize that this is going to happen regardless" he said softly, "Mycroft will be so annoying if it doesn't, and he's likely to cart me off somewhere to have it done instead. Most unpleasant don't you think?" He closed his eyes, and leaned his head back a little, hands gripping the armrests.

John brushed at the skin under his fingers softly before pulling away to slip on the provided gloves, "Yes, I think it'll look nice though. Your whole new look."

"I'm sure it will look passable. You're the one cutting my hair and coloring it. I trust you." However much trust Sherlock put in his flatmate, he was still a little nervous. He'd never done anything to his hair other than cut a stray curl or two himself whenever they got too long.

Trying not to think of the fact that he'd never done more than a quick fade for his buddies John snapped open the chemical mixture. He hesitated, holding the bottle over Sherlock's hair, "Okay, the warnings say it might feel a little warm. Just, let me know if it's bothering you or anything." Slowly he began drizzling the liquid into the dark hair, pulling it through with his other hand.

Soon the hair was practically soaked, clinging to his scalp. John couldn't help but smile at Sherlock's appearance. "You hanging in there?"

It was cold on his scalp at first, but as John began rubbing it through his hair, it started to make his skin warm. He winced as it started burning and tried not to let John see. After the man questioned his disposition he took it as permission to let the complaints fly.

"It burns John..." he said simply.

"Oh." John grabbed the comb off the table and began working through Sherlock's hair, it was surprisingly thick like this. "It might have said something about that." Given Sherlock's hesitance John had foregone that bit of information. Once he was sure that all of the hair was saturated and combed into submission John slipped off the gloves. "Okay, all done!" His voice was chipper, rather pleased with himself, "Now it just needs to sit for a bit." He moved around to drop back down in the sofa across from Sherlock, noting the time.

Sherlock grumbled under his breath, his fingers tightening on the armrests, wanting desperately to scratch at the places where the burning made his skin itch. He frowned and crossed his arms, fixing John with a pointed stare as if this was all his fault.

"How was work?" he asked, his eyebrow quirking as he waited for an answer.

Not wanting Sherlock to fixate on his obvious irritation with the situation John happily accepted the change in topic. For the first time since Sherlock's return he readily unloaded his burdens, a sort of relief fell over him as he spoke. "Really awful actually. The place was swamped. I had three patients fake being ill to ask me if you were really back. Sarah was as helpful as ever, I mean she was understanding, but she's was not happy at what it was doing to her clinic. And then Mary showed up." John stopped there, shaking his head. He hadn't told Sherlock about what had happened the night before. "It was just chaotic, I was glad to come home." He said the last bit softer and a smile pulled at one side of his mouth. He checked the time, twelve more minutes.

Sherlock smiled at the comment about being glad to come home, but it did not deter him from the hesitation he heard when John mentioned Mary. His eyes narrowed, and he rested his steepled fingers on his lower lip.

"Mary? The woman that you rushed to her aid last night? Why is that a bad thing? I thought you were friends." He was proud of himself as he said that last bit without sounding too much like a jealous lover, "Something went wrong." It was a statement not a question, an Sherlock frowned at the small pleasant flame that thought fanned inside of him..

"Yeah," John's lips pulled to the side as he considered his next words, he could tell the idea of there being anything with Mary bothered Sherlock, which only proved that John had been right, he couldn't have both, only Sherlock. "That wasn't exactly what happened last night. She set up some rouse to get me to come over to her flat, things didn't go her way so she's a bit chuffed with me at the moment." He had a good hunch that the vague explanation wouldn't go over well by the way Sherlock was regarding him.

"So she came up with the rouse that there was a break in at her flat to get you to come over. Why? Just for a chat, unlikely as she would have just called you I'm sure... so it was for something else then. It was obviously not dinner, or to have you fix something... as your clothes were mussed but not dirty like they would have been had something needed repairs and you get a sort of glassy look in your eyes when you are full. Also, if it would have been dinner I suspect It would have gone over better... No it was something else entirely." he closed his eyes and tried hard to drum up the image of John from the night before when he had first walked through the door. It was fuzzy, but it would do.

"Your hair looked like it does when you've been running your hands through it too much, and your clothes were askew, as if gripped tight, pulling you towards them. A few stitches on the seams across your shoulders had been popped too. Someone was very enthusiastic." he opened his eyes and narrowed them at his flatmate.

"So either you and Mary had a small tussle and she lost, or she was trying to give you a good shag and you denied her..." He looked confused at that, "Why did you give up a shag John? That's not like you..."


	15. Why Bother

Startled by the accurate deduction John sat agape, it had been far too long since he'd had Sherlock's deductive reasoning pointed so directly at him. Even before it had not been something he could get used to. Pressing his lips into a firm line he quipped, "I told you she was just a friend, I wasn't interested in her like that. Honestly I was fairly pissed that she'd lied just to get me there." Desperately John checked the time again, six minutes, he found he was counting down, uncertain of how much information he wanted to give Sherlock.

"That's not the only reason though is it John?" he let his eyes flick over the smaller man's face and posture, "I know you've had plenty of sex with women you weren't interested in previously. And It's had to have been at least three years or more since the last time am I correct?" he didn't wait to be answered, he knew he was.

"The conditions were ideal... So why didn't you? Was it guilt? Or perhaps you've given up on relationships since..." he trailed off and mentally kicked himself for being such a prat. That was probably the worst thing he could have said at the moment.

"I think I'd like a cup of tea between this and the next bit if that's alright. Maybe a biscuit too, I'm a little peckish." he looked away and picked up the instructions to the chemicals currently in his hair, flipping them up so that he covered his face, looking very intently over all the safety precautions.

"Oh by all means," John growled as he rose, snatching the thin paper from Sherlock's grasp as he walked past, "don't stop your little show on my account. Since what?" He walked through to the kitchen leaving the directions on the counter, looking at the small clock on the microwave he noted, three minutes. Irritated as he was, John still flicked on the electric tea pot before going back to sit on the couch, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. "Come on. Out with it. What were you going to say?"

"Nothing." he refused to look at John, but the stare was intent and when he looked back to see John very seriously staring him down, he pushed on, feeling like he was babbling. Not something he enjoyed doing. "I've quite forgotten now. It's not important, forget I said anything. How long have we got now?" He looked away, searching for a clock, which was useless because he hadn't paid any attention to the time they'd started.

Heaving a sigh, he kept his eyes averted, tapping his fingers in a familiar agitated pattern. He hated it when he was careless and broached this topic with the doctor. It always left him feeling just a little bit guilty and in need of a cigarette if not something harder. The tapping of his fingers did little to take the edge off the need rolling through his body, but he had firmly decided he was not going to let such a thing control him.

John considered the pressing the subject, part of him wanting to force them into talking about their many issues, but Sherlock's nervous fingers halted him. He was supposed to be helping Sherlock, not pushing towards his addictions. Checking the time he sighed, "Just a minute." Pushing off the couch he went back to the kitchen, the water was already steaming hot. He quickly prepared two cups of tea, which he left steeping on the counter. "It'd probably be easiest if you just duck your head in the sink." He'd seen Harry do this when dying her hair when they'd been in high school.

The detective stood from his chair, happy that John didn't press him, and followed him into the kitchen. He would be glad to get the burning chemicals off of his head, but he knew it wasn't the last he'd feel of it. At least he'd have a break for a little while. Moving to the sink, he passed John by, careful not to touch him, remembering the way he pulled back a little too quickly earlier, and leaned over the sink, still holding the towel around his shoulders.

"Make sure to keep your eyes closed." That was all the warning John gave before turning the water on. He quickly adjusted the temperature, muttering apologies as the frigid water hit Sherlock's hair, drawing a gasp from the detective. Soon enough the water was a comfortable temperature and John began working through Sherlock's hair with one hand. He continued this a little while after he was sure there was no more chemicals. John knew full well he was taking advantage of the liberty he'd been given by Sherlock.

Sherlock had closed his eyes just in time to keep them from being assaulted by the chemicals, and then John's hands were in his hair. Having his eyes closed allowed him to feel every centimeter of the doctor's calloused hands as well as the warmth from where he stood beside him to reach over and rinse his hair.. There were callouses on his hand from the grip of his pistol. He must have cleaned it every night Sherlock had been away. Then there was the one on the side of his left middle finger from where his pencil lay when he wrote. Oh Sherlock didn't think he'd ever tire of being able to feel this content.

John turned off the water and squeezed out the excess before pulling the towel from Sherlock's shoulders and dropping it on top of his soaked head. "Alright, all done. Dry it off." He walked away to finish the tea he'd left steeping, leaving Sherlock with his head in the sink, a towel draped over him ridiculously.

When John's hands left his hair, all the contentment and calm he'd felt spiraled down the drain with the water dripping out of his hair. Standing, he toweled his hair until it was fairly dry, and pulled the towel back down to his shoulders. His once curly hair now hung a little wavy from the dampness, but predominantly straight as it slashed over his forehead, length now fringing into his green eyes. He followed John, eyes set on the tea he'd requested earlier.

John slid the cup across the counter towards him, "We need to give it a bit to dry. The hair dye says to apply it to dry hair." He leaned his back against the counter, now that he wasn't distracted by the act of working his hands through Sherlock's hair his thoughts wandered back to why he had turned Mary down. Sherlock had been the only reason, but that was something he didn't even understand.

Sherlock was his friend, his best friend really and John had missed him desperately while he'd been away. Before he had met Sherlock John had been in a bad place. Unable to adjust to civilian life John had begun spiraling into a dark depression, but Sherlock had saved him, unknowingly perhaps, and had they not gotten the flatshare John wasn't even sure he would still be alive. Then of course, John had been the first person Sherlock seemed to willingly let into his life. So it made perfect sense that they would have a special sort of bond, but now, now things were different. John physically craved Sherlock's presence, his touch, and the thought terrified John.

Lost in his own thoughts John sipped at his tea, a sort of dazed look about him as he contemplated their situation. He knew it was only a matter of time before they would be forced to talk about everything, but seen as John didn't know what sort of response would upset him more, or what his own desires really meant, he swallowed his questions.

Sherlock took his own cup and carefully sipped at the brew. Finding it still too hot for him, he set it down on the counter and raised the towel to rub his hair again. When he finished this time, it was dryer, fluffing up a little.

"Ugh... This is dreadful..." He reached up and tugged at the long hair. It had been a much more manageable length when it was curly. He was glad they had decided to cut it now. Eyes focusing past his fingers, he saw John deep in thought. Letting go of his hair and brushing it out of his face, he sidled up next to the blonde and lightly thumped his forehead, startling John and pulling him from his reverie.

"You look so serious John... What are you thinking about?" He could deduce an idea if he wanted to, but he would rather John have the confidence to tell him.

John stowed the troublesome thoughts as he looked up at Sherlock and shook his head, "Nothing." He took another sip of his tea before changing the subject. "So how do you want me to cut your hair?" John was fighting the desire to finger through the damp hair clinging to Sherlock's forehead.

Breaking away from Sherlock's gaze John stared back down into his cup, watching the tea swirl lightly. He didn't need nor want Sherlock deducing what internal turmoil was rolling through him.

Sherlock cut his eyes at the doctor, effectively hiding the disappointment curling through his stomach. His insufferable curiosity made it almost unbearable to let the question go, but he bit it back and let John change the subject.

"I'm not sure, I haven't ever had a different hairstyle... It's been like this for as long as I can remember." He sighed and picked up his tea again, braving the scalding liquid in favor of a calming drink.

"What do you think would look good with the style of clothes I've purchased?" He asked, inclining his head back towards his room. "It wouldn't do to stick out I suppose..."

"No you're right, it would defeat the purpose if we just drew more attention to ourselves." Setting down his tea John moved to the living room to retrieve his phone. "Actually I did some looking around at my lunch break." Hurrying back to the kitchen John offered his phone to show Sherlock the photo. It was of some posh actor, but his hair was longer on the top, a bit shorter on the sides, and styled in a way that it fell onto his forehead in a small curl. It was the only reference photo John had saved.

"What do you think? Probably go well with your whole look," John shrugged his shoulders and bit at his lip.

Sherlock looked over the photo in detail. The actor in the photo actually had similar features to his own. A long face with chiseled cheekbones and a long,thin nose, however, the man in the photo had a little more weight on him than Sherlock. He supposed the hairstyle would go well with his new assortment of clothing, and it wouldn't look half bad with his old clothes either once he was able to wear them again.

"I trust you. If you think it will look good, then I'll allow it." he stood back up from where he'd leaned over to peruse the photo, "I'm sure you'll make it look good." he took a longer sip of his tea now that it had cooled down some, and leaned back lazily against the counter, one leg bent, his damp hair falling over his eyes, and dripping down onto the collar of his t-shirt.

Coloring Sherlock's hair went about as well as the chemical straightener had gone. Plenty of complaining from the detective, but none of the awkward conversation they'd had before. Both men had seemingly found their comfort again, and soon enough John was holding out a lock of Sherlock's hair with one hand, bearing a small pair of scissors in the other. Sherlock's hair was still wet from the round with the hair dye and draped down into his eyes dramatically. A sort of anticipation built up in John as he hesitated, scissor poised and ready, but when he finally let them cut through and the small bunch of hair floated to the floor he breathed out a sigh of relief and got to work.

They were about half way done with the buzzer rang through the flat. Setting down the scissors and comb John started towards the door. "Uhm, just. . . stay here." He laughed at the ridiculousness of that request, there wasn't much Sherlock could do what with his hair half done, trimmings sticking to him just about everywhere. The detective frowned and shooed him away to the door without answering.

When John reached the door he was a little surprised to find Lestrade standing out on the stoop, but then again, who else would be calling on them.

"Don't tell me we have another one?" Turning to the case was John's instant reaction to seeing Greg without notice like this, a worrisome look crept onto his face causing his brow to furrow slightly.

"No, nothing so dismal, Mycroft sent me to come check on you boys, make sure everything is going according to plan." He patted John on the shoulder and stepped into the entryway.

"What have you heard from the crime scene?" Came Sherlock's voice from the sitting room.

"Looks like both victims were drugged with some sort of mind altering drug. We're not exactly sure of the effects. Molly has some blood samples at Barts for you to examine when you get the chance." The DI started heading up the stairs as he spoke.

"Fingerprints? The girl?"

Lestrade stopped at the top of the stairs and had to stifle a laugh at Sherlock's half finished haircut, to which the detective shot him a withering glare.

"No fingerprints but ours, the girl is fine. She lost a lot of blood, but she'll recover.. Physically. She's been unconscious since shortly after we found her. No ones been able to talk to her yet..."

John followed Lestrade into the room, the silent exchange between the two other men didn't go unnoticed. "Well, just be sure to let us know when things change. In the meantime, Mycroft should be pleased to hear that we are just about done." Moving back around to the other side of Sherlock John picked up where he had left off on his hair.

"Didn't really do all that much for me today at work mind you, but hopefully it will help at the crime scenes." He paused for a moment, sizing up his work so far, "So Mycroft just sent you to make sure we were doing as we were told?" There was a hint of bitterness in this, Mycroft of all people should know John wanted to keep them both safe, even if Sherlock was insistent on being obstinate toward his brother at every turn.

"Yeah, he just doesn't want to take any more chances... Despite what Sherlock likes to say, Mycroft really does worry about him..." Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck, "You wouldn't know it but he's pretty frazzled with everything that's going on."

Sherlock sniffed as let his eyes roam over the man for a quick second before speaking. "So tell me Lestrade, did you stay the night with my brother again?" He wasn't sure where the sudden surge of petulance came from, whether it was because his brother thought he needed to be coddled like a child, or because Lestrade had agreed. Either way the words left a bitter taste in his mouth.

The DI looked taken aback and started to stutter a denial, "I well.. I didn't..."

"Save your pathetic attempt at lying. Your clothes are wrinkled when normally your suit is very pristine, your shoes are scuffed from taking them of haphazardly and dropping them on the floor. You also have a bit of down on your stubble from some very nice pillows, pillows you couldn't afford. Your blushing tells me that you indeed stayed over last night, and probably most nights that you can. The fact that you are being his lap dog and running his errands for him, along with the close proximity you keep also supports that conclusion, the only question that remains is, do you truly care for my brother or are you just shagging each other for the hell of it?

Sherlock wasn't sure why but that thought angered him a little. He wrote it off to the fact that Mycroft seemed happy and that was never something the detective was particularly glad for.

Lestrade opened and closed his mouth for a moment as if trying to think of someway to come back to the detective's snarky deduction. John's hands had froze in mid-air, halfway through Sherlock's mini tantrum. His mouth dropped open slightly as he watched the DI search for a response. John was just about to tell Sherlock to shove it, break the painful silence when Lestrade finally lashed out his reply, "Like you should talk? What's your problem? You have the same relationship with John!"

Instinctively John took a step back from Sherlock, the scissors almost slipped from his hand before he had a chance to drop them on the table. Now John was mirroring Lestrade's previous motions, his mouth opening wordlessly. One hand splayed out on the table for support as John shook his head and his eyes locked pointedly on the DI.

"We're not... " He stared, his eyes dropping to the back of Sherlock's neck before snapping back to Lestrade's, as if begging him to take those words back. They weren't shagging no, but they were sleeping together, rather intimately and for whatever reason John felt the need to keep their lack of a relationship completely and utterly exclusive.

Even though it was the truth, John's sudden denial stabbed through his chest. Was it so disgusting to think of being in a relationship with him? The more he thought about it, the more offensive it became. A particularly annoying bit of his brain questioned why he was reacting so strongly to John's quick denial. In the span of only a few seconds, his brain flickered through all of the new things he had been feeling, all the strange changes that had taken place within him since he'd come back.

Sentiment had once been described to him by Mycroft as wanting to be beside someone for the rest of your life, no matter how annoying and horrid they could be. Was that... Did he feel that way for John? Nonsense, he didn't feel sentiment, he'd forced himself not to a long time ago. Even through his denial, a small part of his him knew he was protesting too much.

Lestrade could see Sherlock deep in thought, and John's eyes were begging for him to diffuse the awkward situation. He cleared his throat and started to speak, "I... I'm sorry I didn't realize it was such a sore topic... I'll just."

"Yes, I believe it's time you took your leave Detective Inspector. You've upset my flatmate and frankly, I'm not too keen on you either at the moment. Tell Mycroft that we are following orders like good little soldiers. Contact us know if anything progresses with the case. Besides that I think you've quite worn out your welcome for the day.."

Lestrade looked like he wanted to argue, but all he ended up doing was nodding to John. "I'll let myself out." He said and left the two to their awkward silence.

As Sherlock was telling off the DI, John's vision dropped again, not wanting to meet that gaze any longer. After the door slammed downstairs, and a particularly painful prolonged silence John stepped forward again, combing through Sherlock's hair softly as he picked back up the scissors. His hands were shaking slightly, but he kept working, desperately trying to pretend the entire affair had not happened.

"Almost done." he muttered softly as a few more snippets of hair toppled to the ground around Sherlock. Carefully breaching the subject John cleared his throat before speaking, "So Greg and Mycroft. Didn't see that coming."

"Yes, well it's none of our business really now is it? He was being annoying and I was trying to embarrass him. I think it quite backfired though." His voice trailed off and he closed his eyes. His fingers began tapping their agitated rhythm again. Finding himself at a loss for words John didn't respond.

Tap ta-ta-ta tap tap

"Are you almost done John?" He asked softly.

"Almost," John muttered, flipping the longer bits of Sherlock's hair this way and that, looking for any stray bit's he'd missed.

Tap ta-ta-ta tap tap

"I think i've had a bit too much domestic fun for today," the word even tasted snarky in his mouth, "It's high time I start on my experiments again. I've had this theory about the size of sewer rats..."

"Mm." John offered, the only sign that he was even listening to Sherlock's ramblings. His own mind far from the conversation.

Tap ta-ta-ta tap tap. Tap ta-ta-ta tap tap.

His fingers were tapping faster now as he grew more and more agitated. He couldn't think about these things. Not here, with John's calloused fingers in his hair. "I'd like to go collect some before it gets too dark..."

Feeling utterly mad, he knew needed to get out of the flat to sort these things out. John's presence was for once only serving to befuddle him further, and suddenly he felt desperate to be free of him. His mind, refusing to obey his constant struggling to quiet it, played through the past few days and the jealousy and sentiment he'd begun feeling towards his best friend. It was all tedious and foreign and Sherlock didn't like that he was oblivious to it all until pointed out by a bumbling police officer. No matter,he told himself internally, he would squash this feeling like he had all others at some point in his life, and without any indication from John that he was feeling these same things it was idiocy to continue to harbor them. Of course he had become much more intimate with the detective, even going so far as to sleep in the detective's bed, but John had a severe hero complex, always trying to help and fix people at the detriment of himself. No, Sherlock could not see the sentiment returned and therefore he would not allow himself to fall into this dangerous trap.

"I shouldn't be gone more than an hour and a half." He wasn't sure why he was babbling about his experiment, but he suspected it was to keep the awkward silence from returning.

As if he'd finally dropped back down to earth John set down the scissors and leaned around the side of the chair so he could just see Sherlock's expression. "You want to go collect sewer rats and bring them home? Here?" His own eyebrows were raised questioningly.

"Yes here. It's not as if I have a secret laboratory stashed somewhere. If I had I wouldn't need a flat." He frowned at John's expression and continued, "they won't be alive John."

He said it like that made it better somehow.

For whatever reason the idea of live rats had seemed more appalling than the assorted body parts that seemed to make their way to the fridge, and alive or dead John wasn't keen on the idea. Of course there was also the fact that John didn't want Sherlock to leave. He needed to figure out what was going on between them and that wasn't going to happen with Sherlock swanning off.

He pulled back and began dusting he stray hairs from Sherlock's neckline before removing the towel from around his shoulders, "I was thinking we could have a night in, it's sorta been nothing but excitement since you got here. What with the case on Saturday and. . . well last night." He didn't want to rehash that.

Sherlock stood and brushed off a few hairs John had missed and turned around to look down at the doctor. He was closer than Sherlock had anticipated, they were almost toe to toe and he felt every cell of his being screaming out in confliction both for John to touch him, and to get away from him. No longer was his body just transport, it was demanding things of him, and he couldn't ignore it any longer. Shaking his head a bit, the small section of his new slightly wavy fringe fell in his eyes as the dark verdant hues searched John's face for answers he knew he wouldn't find.

A part of John still wanted to argue against the whole idea, but he froze up. He had held his breath as Sherlock turned to face him, his own body aching to lean forward into the man. Sherlock's penetrating gaze felt as though it was tearing John apart, piece by piece, John couldn't help but wonder what the detective could see.

"I'm feeling a bit cooped up presently." He said softly. "I'll only be gone for a bit. I'll give you your night in after as a thank you, for this." He reached up, flipping the fringe back and out of his face. When he looked down again, he was transfixed by the lines of John's face, the curve of his nose...

Damnit stop that!

He grit his teeth and looked away, moving to his room to change clothes before he left.

The flash of anger that spread across his features was so quick John almost missed it, not quite though.

As Sherlock stalked away John gathered his breath and his thoughts. Whatever Sherlock had been able to deduce, he hadn't liked it. Maybe John had become too physically attached to the detective, maybe he was putting too much emotion into something the detective considered convenience.

Without a word John began cleaning up the evidence of their domestic pursuits. His heart was beginning to ache, and a part of John had an inkling as to why.

Sherlock came out, once again in the blue and black he'd donned earlier that day, pulling on the leather jacket, and sliding the hood over his head, hiding everything but the sweep at the front. The detective turned back at the door and looked like he was about to say something, but instead he only watched John clean up for a moment before turning and jogging down the steps.

John glanced over his shoulder as he heard the descending footfall, and was surprised at his own disappointment. All the same it left John to his thoughts. His mind wandered back to the moment before Sherlock had walked away from him. When they had stood toe to toe and Sherlock had held him with that look that sent shivers down John's spine. It shouldn't, but it did.

It hadn't been the first time John had been felt that way of course, it was just something that up until now had been pleasantly ignored by the both of them. If John was honest with himself he had felt like this after every deduction, every silent conversation, every time Sherlock made it a point to show off, not for everyone else, but for John.

Finishing with the mess John pushed the table back into the kitchen, leaving the flat looking rather untouched, as if nothing had changed. But everything had changed. In the past three days everything that could possibly have changed had and now, as John wandered into Sherlock's room to hang up the forgotten clothes from the morning, he began to honestly consider that his feelings for Sherlock were something real.

This time around Lestrade didn't bother to text Mycroft to let him know he was in trouble, this was getting ridiculous. This was the second time the bastard had sent him into that flat to confront Sherlock unprepared.

As always, the elder Holmes was held up in his office, pouring over god knows what. Lestrade pushed through the double doors dramatically and straight up to Mycroft's desk.

"Don't you dare give me that look," He growled, slamming a hand down on the front of the desk. "I told you... God Dammit Mycroft I told you not to send me in like that again!"

Mycroft's brows knit together and his head cocked to this side, seeming genuinely perplexed by the outburst. "I don't know what you mean? Is Sherlock not cooper-"

"You know damn well what I'm talking about." Lestrade cut him off quickly with a flourish of his hands before pointing back at Mycroft with one finger, "You told me they were sleeping together. I just made an arse of myself. God. John looked mortified."

"Oh Greg," Mycroft chuckled, lacing his fingers together atop his desk, "Yes. I said they were sleeping together, I didn't say they having sex. Do keep up."


	16. Hear Me

In the past three days everything that could possibly have changed had and now, for the first time, John had begun to honestly consider that his feelings for Sherlock were something real.

It wasn't something he had let himself think about before. He had questioned his own motives, given into his desires to an extent, but he had not let himself consider the fact that he might want the very thing that terrified him. That he might want whatever transformation their relationship was going through to continue. The more he thought about it though, the less frightening it became. He had always clearly identified as straight, but the only reason he had become so boisterous about it was because everyone had begun insisting he was with Sherlock. At the time it made sense to protect their public image, at least that's what John told himself.

So what had changed since then? Why was he honestly considering what they could become? He thought back to the night before he'd left for college, him and Harry had been up most of the night marathoning their favorite episodes of Doctor Who. They knew it was the last time they would be together like this.

"I'm telling mum and dad tomorrow, after you leave." She was sprawled out across the sofa, John sat on the floor, his head leaning back against the cushion of the seat. He paused the TV and turned a little so he could look at his sister.

"Why don't you tell them while I'm here. They might take it a little better." John knew they wouldn't, but at least then she'd have someone by her side.

"Oh Johnny," She ruffled his hair sweetly, "They are going to hate it, not gonna matter who's there or how it's said."

"What are you gonna tell them anyways?" She had tried explaining it to him once, didn't quite make sense to him still.

"Well, I seem to be more attracted to women, and I think one way or the other would be easiest for them to understand. So I'll tell them I'm gay and that'll be that." Her voice was strong, like it would be the easiest thing in the world, but she bit at her lip nervously, the same way John did at times. "If I end up with a bloke, well then they can just think they were right all along, I really don't care what they think."

"Do you think that'll happen? That you'll find a guy you want to be with?" This is what confused John the most, she seemed so ambivalent on the subject.

She sat up, pulling her legs into a criss crossed position she leaned forward, her elbows digging into her knees. "John love is very complicated, and sometimes, if you get it right, it doesn't matter who you're normally attracted to or what they have going on downstairs. Sometimes you just fall in love and there is nothing that can explain it." She had been so very serious when she said that, then it was gone. She hopped from the couch in one swift movement promising to fetch the wine from her secret hideaway.

He had never really given Harry's words much thought, but as he hung his clothes in Sherlock's closet resolutely he considered how much they spoke to him now. He'd have to thank Harry one day. But of course as far as John saw it, this acceptance was a useless exercise. The physical relationship that they had entered was one of convenience, to help them both make it through each day and night. No matter how much John wanted it to be more he couldn't see it happening.

Sherlock slipped through Mrs. Hudson's back door with a quick kiss to her cheek and a muttered no thank you to tea and biscuits. Outside it was raining, a freezing December rain that cut through even the leather of his new jacket, so he stole down the alley swiftly, avoiding the few reporters camped out at their front door, and took the nearest tube downtown where he could easily get into the sewers through a loose manhole cover.

The cotton hood made him feel like a teenage hoodlum looking for trouble, so once he was under the cover of the underground sewers, he removed it. The maze like sewer system was eerily quiet, not even the rats were making any noise. Perfect, the silence would make his thoughts easier to sift through.

Sherlock walked for a while until he felt no one would stumble upon him, and he finally allowed his legs to give out as they'd wanted to in the flat, but he'd refused. Now he collapsed against a wall, sliding down, pulling his legs to his chest, balancing his elbows on his knees. Frustrated, he let his hands run through his lack of hair, and tugged at it, as if the motions would make his brain easier to clear.

How could he be harboring sentiment towards John? John "Three Continents" Watson who dated the most annoying women and had a bad habit of licking his lips when it wasn't the least bit appropriate? Caring about him as a friend had been different than this. He'd wanted John's company before, but the craving for physical touch hadn't been there, and now he'd started finding ways to keep the doctor close. It had become a sort of game with himself, seeing how far he could go, how much he could touch without driving the blonde to pull away. In hindsight he worried that he might have been exchanging his addiction to drugs with an addiction to John.

How could he have let this happen? Letting out a long breath to steady himself, Sherlock began examining everything in his mind, starting to speak out loud, fingers gripping his hair tightly. He needed to figure things out and the best way was to lay out all the facts.

"Before Moriarty forced me to jump from Bart's, John made some hurtful comments. My phone call was probably a bit dramatic, but I had to make him believe. It was to protect him. It wasn't his fault he got mixed up in all of this. He should have just given up on me, accepted that I was dead. If he had, things would have been easier. While I was gone, I thought about him many times. Was it because I had gotten used to his presence?"

He quickly pushed that thought away. He'd gotten used to plenty of people, Lestrade for one, and he didn't feel this way towards him. Perhaps it was because they lived together. Or was it because he was Sherlock's one and only friend. "Of course I thought of him. He's the only person that's ever looked past my sociopathic quirks. The only one who has stayed despite everything that happened, or any offense I might have caused him. Is that why? He can see me so completely, so honestly. And he still stays by me, even at my worst moments." He stopped talking and just let his mind fill with images of John.

So he cared for John, but how did he care for him? He had called himself jealous when the doctor had run to Mary's aid. The jealousy and need for physical contact suggested something more than just a friendship as he understood it. Is that what he wanted with John? Did he want more than a friendship, something physical and more intimate than what they already shared? Letting the seldom used creative imagination of his brain, he allowed small snippets of possibilities between the two of them to play out in his mind to see how his body would react.

Thinking back to his time in university, he brought the memories of all the sexual relationships he'd had, and imagined John in place of his other partners. John's strong calloused hands gripping his hair and pulling him in for a kiss. John's warm body against his cool one. The tanned skin in comparison to his own ivory pallor. John, on his knees before him, taking the detective's length in his mouth as he fisted himself to completion. Their bodies pressed together in the cold nights, sweating as they rocked together in a motion of pure passion.

After only a few moments, his face was flushed and his breath was short as dancing waves of pleasurable shivers plagued his body. Opening his eyes, he touched a slender hand to his lips as if he could still feel the pressure of the doctors lips from his imagination there. That was new. He'd never reacted so strongly to the thought of sex before. Although he'd told John that relationships 'weren't his area' or that he was 'married to his work' it wasn't for a lack of experience, but rather that he always ended up being the antagonist when he would grow bored of someone. Therein lie the answer to his questions. He could never get bored of John. The thought of John's warmth surrounding him, doing some of the things he'd done to others, having John do those things to him. It set his body on fire and made him feel higher than any drug ever had. He was still feeling the shockwaves of his earlier imaginings and had to bite down a wave of arousal. Suddenly the pit of his stomach gave out, quelling his excitement as a thought crossed his mind.

John didn't feel the same...or did he? Thinking back, Sherlock saw the emotion he could plainly read in John's eyes when they met his, the one he'd never been able to decipher, until now. And the look on John's face before he had left, it had been just as hurt and confused as he had felt himself. Standing, he looked at the time and saw that he had been gone for almost an hour already. Hopping to his feet his pulled his hood back up and sprinted off in the direction of the tube.

He needed to make it up to John. He needed to show him, even if he wasn't ready to accept it yet, that Sherlock cared for him. He would take it slow, ease John into it. They were already further along than he could hope now that they were so comfortable touching and sleeping all curled up with each other. Yes, he would have John Watson acknowledging his own feelings before either of them knew it.

At half six, after a quick run to Tesco, and a glance to make sure no reporters were hiding in their bushes Sherlock stood on the front step, digging around in his pockets for his keys. Cursing under his breath, he realized he'd left them on his bedside table. Reaching for the knob, he turned it. Locked. Mrs. Hudson must have gone out, and as a force of habit she had locked the door behind her. Sighing and thinking that this had put a damper on his surprise, Sherlock raised his fist and knocked a little impatiently on the door, folding his arms and the sack of supplies he'd bought on his way home behind his back.

John had toyed with the idea of texting Sherlock to check on him but decided against it. Sherlock had left obviously chuffed, he didn't want to talk to John. Settling on the novel he had still yet to finish John fell into his armchair and attempted to focus on someone else's problem for a little while. It wasn't long before he heard the rap on the door. Leaving his book face down on the armrest John made his way down stairs, and was rather surprised to see Sherlock waiting on the stoop.

"Uhm, forget your key?" John hadn't been expecting Sherlock to return as soon as he'd promised, but he offered a small, sort of sad smile and stood aside for the detective to come in.

Sherlock felt a stab in his chest at the sad smile on his face. He just looked down at the smaller man, his eyes flying over his face deducting.

He's been thinking. Sad smile, he's made a decision. He accepts it but he doesn't think I'll accept it. And that makes him sad... Oh John, things will be better soon, I promise...

Sherlock couldn't stand that sad look on his face though. Determined to change it, he took a step inside, but instead of going further into the flat, he slid his arms beneath both of John's and wrapped him tightly in a hug, his forehead falling forward slightly so that his cheek pressed against the doctor's temple, and his jacket opening up and sapping the warmth from the smaller man.

John froze for a moment, surprised by the sudden contact, his arms hung awkwardly in the air before he conceded and let them fall around Sherlock's shoulders. "Uhm, hello." He muttered into the collar of Sherlock's jacket. Sherlock's entire body felt icy against his own, cold from being outside in the frigid December air. The change in temperature sent a small shiver down his spine.

"I'm sorry about earlier." His voice was soft as he pulled the doctor's body flush to his own, relishing in the full contact after such a long day, "I just needed some time to get my thoughts in order."

Long fingers tightened in the doctor's shirt, he smiled knowingly against his hair. His next statement would both confound the other man and please him. "No rats to be found, but I have a surprise for you." He pulled away slightly to look down into John's azure gaze.

The complete turnaround in Sherlock's attitude was startling to say the least. John smiled freely, unable to suppress his emotions after the start of having the lanky detective throw himself around him. No rats, that was a bit good, but a surprise was very new.

"It's fine Sherlock, I'm fine." He wasn't really, but the sudden appreciation spilling from Sherlock was helping a bit. "A surprise? What kind of surprise?" There was a hint of apprehension in his voice as his arms slipped from Sherlock's shoulders.

Sherlock could feel the tension racing through John's body from the places they touched. He let his arms slip from John's waist.

He can't decide what to think. Keeping up this constant barrage of affection could possibly achieve his relaxation... more data needed to be positive.

The detective brushed his hair out of his face with his free hand and held the bag aloft for John to take. "Since we're having a night in, and I noticed that you haven't been keeping your favorite brand of tea in the cupboards, I bought some. And some of those biscuits that you like. I figured we could watch some of that terrible telly you enjoy so much and you could make some tea." His smile was warm as he spoke. "Frankly, the stuff you've been making recently is complete shite." He raised his eyebrows and turned, moving up the stairs, leaving John to follow in his wake.

John stared after the detective for a moment, his mouth agape. Once he had collected himself he closed the front door and hurried up the stairs after Sherlock. As he reached the last few steps he slowed, a little confused at what to expect from Sherlock tonight. Once inside the flat he headed for the kitchen, hitting the switch to start the electric teapot before turning to face Sherlock, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest.

"Wait a second," a wry smile pulled at his mouth as he teased Sherlock about his earlier comment, "You don't like my tea?"

Moving to set the bag on the counter just behind the shorter man, he stayed fairly close, not letting John have a real break from their nearness. He wasn't trying to overbear him with the invasion of space, merely keep him on the edge and make him aware of the fact that something had obviously changed, and that it wasn't just going to go away. He had to prove to John that he couldn't just ignore this.

"It's not your tea I don't like. It's the brand." He pulled the box out of the bag and handed it to the man, "Yours is the best tea I've had." His face flushed a bit and he looked away. There was something wrong with his brain to mouth connection, because it felt as though it was literally short circuiting around his blogger. He, of course, totally blamed John.

Damn right, John found himself thinking as he took the box from Sherlock with a smug smirk. His gaze flicked up and down Sherlock as the man looked away, trying to understand what the detective was playing at. Turning away John began gathering the rest of the supplies for their tea as the water began to boil.

"What's on the Telly tonight? Do you know?"

"No idea, you can choose." John answered as he set out the milk and sugar. Sherlock may have been willing to watch crap telly, but between the two of them he was without a doubt the picky one. Not to mention John was enjoying Sherlock's happy and relaxed demeanor, he wasn't going to do anything to ruin it. Not tonight. They had spent too much of the past three days fighting.

Sherlock pushed himself away from the counter and moseyed into the sitting room where he folded himself up in his chair, in a strategic position where he could watch John, but snap his attention back to the telly if he needed to. His right leg was folded underneath him, the other tucked up against his chest.

It was strangely calming watching the smaller man move about the kitchen, doing something as normal as making tea for the both of them. Wondering how many times he'd taken John making tea for granted, he started flipping through channels until he found the tail end of a scary movie. The banner across the bottom boasted another one up next.

"Up for a screamer?" he asked with a smirk.

Glancing over his shoulder John chuckled a little darkly, "Fine by me, but there's not much that can actually scare me any more. Not in those movies at least." He could hear the tell tale scream of some b-list actress. Giving the two cups of finished tea one final stir John gathered their supplies, the tea and the bag with the biscuits, and moved them to the small table in between their arm chairs.

John was still wearing the clothes he'd worn to dye Sherlock's hair, and it showed in the small splatters across his chest. "I'm just gonna go change real quick." Then looking Sherlock up and down again with just a quick flick of his eyes he went on, "I'm just throwing on pyjamas though, if you want to lose the skinny jeans." He half teased before turning back towards his own room.

His head was swimming a bit by the time he made it up the stairs to his room where his pyjamas were still kept at least. Had he really just said that? Desperately he hoped Sherlock hadn't taken it as any sort of innuendo. At least if Sherlock said anything he could write it off as teasing Sherlock about his new attire, which wasn't a total lie.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the joke, but once he was sure John was in his room, he sprang up from his chair and started moving furniture around. He pulled the coffee table towards the windows and shuffled the chairs and couch around until the couch was slanted diagonally across the room, and the chairs occupied the space where the couch had been previously.

Scampering into his room, he changed into his dressing gown and pyjamas, and high tailed it back to the sitting room. Tucking one leg beneath himself again, he spread his arm over the back of the couch in a relaxed fashion and leaned back against the armrest, completely at ease. The small table was on his side and he sipped the tea John had given him. Green eyes slipped closed and a small groan left his lips at the taste. Best tea in bloody England.

John stopped just inside the doorway, looking about the room curiously. Taking slow languid steps he stopped just behind the couch, his head fell to the side in question as he studied Sherlock's relaxed form. He wasn't sure what was going through the detectives head, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to not read into his actions. "You rearranged?" There was barely a hint of a question as he moved around the to sit next to Sherlock, leaning carefully against the opposite arm of the sofa.

"Feng Shui." he explained simply, "I felt we needed a change." He shifted trying to get comfortable in the corner of the couch. "Biscuit?" he passed over the bag to John, his eyes lingering as he did so. Once the bag was taken from him, he settled back, and turned the volume up on the horror movie on the telly.

Muttering his thanks John tore into the biscuits, nibbling at one for a moment before he pushed off the arm of the sofa to sit up, nudging Sherlock's left foot with his right. His lips pulled to one side, hiding a smile.

"Uhm, you want to pass over the tea Sherlock?" His tea still sat next to Sherlock's on the small table. Snagging a few extra biscuits he held the bag back out to Sherlock as if to trade.

Sherlock let his foot slide to the floor and sat up, reaching for John's mug. He took it and passed it over, waving off the biscuits. As the other reached for his mug, their fingers brushed on the handle. An electric shock ran through his body, making all the hairs on his body stand on end.

Pulling his hand back, he settled down on the couch again, wondering if John had felt it too and trying to calm his nerves.

John set the bag between the two of them before gripping the cup with both hands. He stared pointedly into the mug, trying not to act as ridiculous as he felt. He felt like a bloody teenager again, trying to guess just how close they were supposed to sit, what the other wanted. Taking a sip of the tea John tried to steady himself. Sherlock had had no problem with physical contact the entire time he'd been back, in fact he'd quite encouraged it, so maybe he was reading into things too much.

Convincing himself that he was just shaken by Lestrade's earlier comment, and that perhaps nothing had changed between the two of them basically leaving them in the same half way intimate friendship they had somehow fallen into upon Sherlock's return, he relaxed into the couch. He still wasn't quite touching Sherlock in any direct way, but he could feel the warmth of his arm draped across the back of the sofa.

Focusing his attention on the movie John snacked on the biscuits as he drank his tea and barely a quarter of the way through the movie John's tea was gone. Setting the empty cup on the floor John pulled his legs under him, leaning his head back into the sofa. Despite the fact that the movie was meant to be a thriller John slowly began nodding off.

Unbeknownst to John, Sherlock had begun scooting closer. By the time he had finally nodded off, they were practically side by side. He smiled at his flatmate's sleeping form. John looked younger, happier in sleep. Sherlock let his arm drape lower on the back of the couch as he turned back to the movie, yawning into his free hand.

An explosion rang out from the TV and John, in his sleep addled mind, was wrenched awake letting out a rather embarrassing yelp of his own as he toppled towards Sherlock. Somewhere between dreams and reality his mind had wrapped a nightmare around the sound, leaving him shaking and disoriented. Blinking rapidly, trying to remember his surroundings John realized he had all but jumped into his flatmate's lap, his hands were gripping at the blue dressing gown desperately. Quickly letting go John sat up, leaning forward on his knees to bury his face in his shaking hands. It was a horrible feeling. He still felt slightly disoriented, even though he knew it had been a simple triggered impulse, a deep rooted fear. Wiping one hand across his face, pinching his the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb, John let out a heavy breath trying to relax. When he felt an arm drape over his shoulders tentatively he completely forgot about being wary of personal boundaries and leaned into the nook under Sherlock's outstretched arm, muttering apologies for his reaction.

The shout had legitimately frightened Sherlock. He had been halfway dozing himself when John practically jumped into his lap. Worried green eyes catalogued his reaction as he tried to calm down. There was a small victory when involuntarily he leaned into Sherlock's embrace, but he took that as knowing he was safety.

"Shhhh..." he whispered in response to John's mutterings and pulled him closer so that they were touching from hip to shoulder, "Don't apologize, just relax." He reached over and flipped the telly to a channel that played mostly music. Tonight it was soft classical. "There that's better..." He drew small patterns on John's back as he tried to comfort him. Glimpsing a piece of his past that vividly made Sherlock yearn to make everything in his present alright. He never forgot that John was a soldier, but lull they'd had the past few days had put him into a false sense of security. Sometimes the fact that John had such a carefree attitude helped him forget that the doctor was just as broken as the detective himself. He took a few scoots towards the armrest incase they wanted to lean back for a while.

Eyes clamped shut, John visibly relaxed when the channel was changed. Sherlock's comforting touch slowed his breathing and soon enough he didn't feel like all his nerves were on edge. When he had found his bearings John looked up at Sherlock, finally processing everything that had just transpired between the two of them..

"Thanks." He said softly, his eyes dropping to his hands, resting in his own lap, the tremors gone. John had been in Sherlock's position many times, but seeing the other man step up to care for him only made his feelings for Sherlock that much stronger.

Sherlock waved the thanks away before returning his hand to John's back, tracing comforting circles there, "Here, lay down just for a bit, and then we'll go to bed. You seem tired..." He pulled them both so that he was lying against the corner. Lifting one leg onto the seat so that it could run along the back of the couch, he settled the relaxed soldier against his chest and between his legs. Wrapping both arms around him to try and fight off the rest of his nightmares.

John was tired, exhausted actually. He put up no protest as he was pulled in between Sherlock's legs, instead he worked with him, scooting up against the detective and burying himself in the man's thin chest. Sherlock had barely finished situating the two of them on the small sofa before John was out again, his sleep pleasantly calm after the sudden start.

Sherlock let out a stifled yawn and wiggled his shoulders into the cushion to get comfortable. His own head tipping forward and to the side so that his cheek rested on top of John's head, his own weariness getting the better of him too. Still asleep, John nuzzled closer to the pressure as Sherlock leaned into him. Rolling slightly John wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist, his arm nestled inside of the open dressing gown.

The next morning, Mrs. Hudson came bustling up the stairs to check on the boys and make sure Sherlock was eating breakfast, but when she reached the top, she stopped. The furniture had been rearranged, and her boys were laying on the couch. Sherlock was leaned back against the arm, cradling John in his arms, face nuzzled into the man's hair. Her smile was wide, she'd always had a feeling they would get together at some point. She and a few others could see what the boys had been so blind to three years ago, and she hoped that those things were becoming apparent to them too. The both sorely deserved to be happy.

Padding downstairs, she found the number for the clinic that John had given her for emergencies if she'd needed him, and for the early times when staying in contact with his employer had been best, to keep her updated of his condition. There had been days he could work and days that the grief was just too much. Picking up her wall phone to call the number, she listened to it ring for a few moments before a pleasant sounding woman answered at the other end.

"Sarah dear, it's Mrs. Hudson, I'm calling in for Doctor Watson, I believe he will be taking a personal day today."

"Been awhile since I heard from you... All the stress of Sherlock coming back getting to him?" She asked.

"Like you wouldn't believe..."

"That's fine, in fact, tell him to take the rest of the week off, he can come back after the holidays. I was going to wait and see how today went and talk to him after hours, but it doesn't seem like Sherlock's popularity has done much to aid the clinic. We're still fairly busy, and half of the patients that are lined up outside don't even look sick. Perhaps if he's out on leave it will discourage people from coming in just to see him."

"Alright deary, I'll tell him. Good Morning." She hung up at Sarah's goodbye and made her way back up the stairs. She found Sherlock slowly waking, opening his eyes and blinking against the brightness. When he calculated the time, he moved to wake John but she stopped him. Coming closer she leaned down, and explained her conversation with Sarah. The smile on his face was brilliant and he thanked her, settling back down on the couch, running his fingers through John's hair, trying to mentally prepare himself for the way John would distance himself once he woke. For the moment, he just relished in the warmth coming from the doctor in his arms, and the utter feeling of home that came with it. The thought was jarring at first, something he hadn't thought of before, but the more he examined it, the truer it felt. John felt like home.

Mrs. Hudson smiled, gave Sherlock a wink, and retreated back downstairs to call her next door neighbor and gossip about her not quite married ones.

Exhausted from the night before, John slept on for awhile longer his subconscious mind soothed by Sherlock's presence and touch. When he did finally wake he was a little surprised to find himself tucked neatly between Sherlock's legs. Retracting his arm from around Sherlock he used it to prop his head up off of Sherlock's chest. Essentially breaking the full body contact without ripping himself away, something he really didn't want to keep repeating.

"Morning," he deadpanned, his eyes jumping about as his sleep addled mind tried to process every detail. Last night they had fallen asleep like this, Sherlock had been comforting him. The movie, John remembered his volatile reaction to the rather unimpressive horror film. It was almost embarrassing, but Sherlock had been there for him. A small smile crept onto his features as he looked up at the mess of ginger hair. He had a sudden overwhelming urge to run his finger through the wavy tuft at the front that fell into his eyes, but stopped himself.

Suddenly he realized just how much light was streaming into the sitting room. with a little more of a start, he practically fell from the couch trying to scramble to his feet. "Shit, I have to get to work."

Sherlock grabbed his wrist and pulled him back down on the couch a little forcefully. "Relax. Mrs. Hudson called Sarah, told her you needed a personal day. She gave you the week off. Apparently she thinks its a good idea not to have you in the office for a bit while the excitement dies down."

His expression had been a little bored when he spoke, but his lips twisted in a small smile now. "Sleep alright? You seemed dead to the world there for a while. You must have been exhausted."

Falling back into Sherlock a little less comfortably John didn't make any sort of move. He didn't adjust himself so they were closer, more comfortable, nor did he pull away. John was still at a loss when it came to Sherlock. He'd accepted that he had his own feeling for Sherlock, some sort of transcending bond that defied John's normal parameters for love and relationships. This was not the part that was upsetting John, he'd even come to terms with the fact that Sherlock had no need, time, or desire for such a relationship. They both needed the physical comfort from each other, to Sherlock everything else was transport. But, with Sherlock insisting upon holding him so closely John was finding it difficult to think straight.

"Yeah," He breathed, shifting slightly. "Thanks, for last night, that could have been a lot worse than it was." That was true, had he gone to bed on his own after a start like that he would been sucked back down into his own nightmares.

John was laying against Sherlock's chest still, his arms tucked close to his own, his body pressing against the back of the couch and Sherlock's outstretched leg. He only stayed for a moment before sitting up on the other side of the sofa, "Tea?" He hoped the offerer sounded natural.

Sherlock could feel the tension radiating through John's body and relinquished his hold as the man sat up, feeling a bit awkward due to John's reaction. "Tea will be fine." His voice was flat once more as he sat up and clicked the Telly off.

Just as he was about to stand and retrieve his violin, his telephone rang from the small table where he'd sat it last night. It was Greg. Frowning he took up the phone thinking he needed something exciting to spruce up his otherwise disappointing morning.

"Sherlock Holmes." He answered. The other man spoke for a moment and Sherlock stifled the smile that wanted to spread across his lips, "Very well, we'll be there presently." He him up and sprang to his feet.

"Forget the tea John. The victim is awake." Sherlock half shouted in excitement as he disappeared into his room to change.

John was halfway to the kitchen when the phone call came through, and he could tell there was a break in the case before Sherlock said anything, the excited smile said it all. He shook his head, trying to hide his own excitement as he followed Sherlock down the hall towards his room. He was just about in the doorway when he remembered that he'd went ahead and hung up his new clothes with Sherlocks. Slowly he stepped into the room as he drew his bottom lip between his teeth waiting for a reaction.

Sherlock stood in the doorway to his closet. There were few things left in this world that surprised the consulting detective, but his older flatmate managed to do it more often than not. His eyebrow raised questioningly as he looked at all of John's clothes right alongside his own. He composed himself after a moment and reached inside, pulling out a long sleeve green shirt.

"Glad to see you've decided to make the matter permanent." He couldn't stop the smile that crossed his face as he pulled out a pair of dark jeans and moved to retrieve some pants and socks from his drawers. With that done he whisked his way into the bathroom for a quick shower.

As the door clicked shut behind the consulting detective John let out a sigh of relief. So even if Sherlock didn't seem to have interest in a relationship whatever they were doing, it was something Sherlock wanted to keep up. Gathering his own clothes from the closet John went back to his room to change, he'd need to move the rest of his clothes over when he had the chance. There was a sort of acceptance as John changed into his new clothes for the second time. If this was all Sherlock was interested in, John would take it. It sounded pathetic, even to himself, but having this much of Sherlock was better than none.

After he had changed John hurried down stairs, in hopes of making up some tea before the detective was ready to leave.

Sherlock was out of the shower and dressed in record time. He pulled on his clothes quickly, and was sitting on the couch lacing up his new high tops, watching John make tea out of the corner of his eyes.

"We've no time for tea John..." He said a little exasperated, "come! Let's go." He stood, both shoes now on, reaching for his jacket and grabbing his phone.

"Moriarty isn't going to wait for tea!" He called up from the bottom of the stairs

Abandoning the cuppa John threw on his jacket and chased after Sherlock, muttering under his breath about Moriarty waiting long enough for someone else to shower. Reaching the bottom of the steps he tried to glower up at the detective, but his excitement for the whole affair was a bit contagious. John rolled his eyes as they stepped outside.

"Business as usual then."


	17. Every Last Thing

Sherlock knocked on the door, and opened it when he heard Lestrade's quiet acquiesce to come in. His hands were shoved in his pocket as he came in, and he held the door for John with his toe. Sally Donovan was on the other side of the bed, and her brow was quirked as the two walked in.

"Nice look freak." she said with a sneer, but it lacked her normal venom. The detective figured his confrontation with her a few days before had actually done some good.

"Joan." Lestrade took her hand gently and pointed to the two coming through the door, "This is Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson, they have some questions for you." She nodded and Lestrade placed a hand on Sherlock's arm, bringing him closer and laying the girl's slender hand in his. To the side of her bed, he could see a pair of crutches. Cerebral Palsy? he wondered.

"Be nice." The Detective Inspector hissed in his ear just before allowing him to sit. The younger man threw him a glare before taking his seat and covered the small pale hand with his own equally pale large ones.

"Ms. Wilson," he started, "What do you remember of your attacker?"

"He was tall, an older gentleman, he had a kind face though." her voice was small and frightened. She choked down half a sob, wiping her eyes with the hand not strapped into an IV before continuing. "He told me to give you a message..." Everyone in the room seemed to collectively draw a breath.

"Go on." he said, his eyes narrowing, but his fingers squeezing hers supportively.

"He told me to give you the message, "I gave you their number, I thought you might call...' Do you know what that means sir? Do you know why he did this to Sh-Sherly and I?" Tears welled in her eyes as she forced out the name of her deceased lover. Sherlock didn't answer, he looked at her deeply, his eyes flickering over her, trying to find the context.

"Sherlock?" John stepped closer, almost directly behind him, so his words were obviously only meant for the taller man before whispering, "The pool." His body tensed as he thought back to when he'd heard those words spoken before. A sort of innate fear crept into his mind and John had to remind himself that Mycroft had assured them Moriarty was dead. This had to be a copycat, but the thought didn't quell his fears. Clearly this psychopath was just as volatile as his predecessor.

"How?" His voice was terse. The one word spoke all of Johns questions. Questions he prayed Sherlock had already worked out the answer to.

"Yes." Was all he said as his mind flashed through all possibilities. Vaguely he registered that the girl had asked him a question and answered without really paying attention.

"I'm afraid that you just share our initials and bear a small resemblance to us..." He looked up as if he had just realized what he said. He could imagine what it would have been like if he were in her position, and John had already been there once. "I'm sorry. I promise you I will catch this man, and I will make him pay, but I need you to help me.." His face was intense, but he squeezed her hands again reassuringly.

Fresh tears were streaming down her face, he could tell she wanted to be mad at him, but she couldn't. He wondered if she could see the hurt Moriarty had caused him too?

"Now did he say anything else?" She nodded, wiping away her tears with her free hand, "Good, what did he say?"

"He said that the flirting was over, Daddy's had enough... He said your heart would be bleeding soon enough."

"Bleeding... Lestrade do you have the crime scene photos?"

"Yeah.." Lestrade seemed a bit taken aback, having been caught up in the scene, "back at the precinct..."

"Joan, you've been amazing help." Sherlock leaned forward and kissed her tear stained cheek, "I'll come back to see you soon..." Standing, he shared a pointed look with the doctor and left the room.

John stepped forward, placing a tentative hand over Joan's. "I am truly sorry for all of this. We won't let it happen to anyone else I promise." He found himself fighting off the tears threatening to spill out, and couldn't help but feel responsible for the poor woman's fate. Licking his lips he pulled his hand away, stuffing them both deep into the pockets of trousers.

He looked back at Lestrade to give him a curt nod and say, "We'll meet you back at the precinct." Before turning and following after Sherlock.

It didn't take him too long to catch up with the detectives long strides. Grabbing the thin wrist he pulled, forcing Sherlock to stop and face him. John was genuinely frightened now, who ever this was, Moriarty or not, they were a threat.

"Sherlock... Sherlock! Talk to me. What the hell is going on here? What's in the crime scene photo's?" John's jaw was set defiantly, he was not letting Sherlock take off on this one. Not with what he had just heard.

Sherlock carded his hand through curls that were no longer there, and tried to avoid John's gaze. He dropped his arms finally, when he realized John was not going to let him by without an explanation.

"I'm not sure what's in those photos John, that's why I want to look at them. But I think he left a clue about the next victim somewhere in the crime scene. His original words were, 'I gave you my number, I thought you might call.' why change it? Why say their? He could be referring to the next victims or something else entirely, but I want to see those photos and check over everything." He started to pace back and forth, his hands jammed down in his pockets, "Also, his original words to me were that he was going to burn the heart out of me. He never said anything about blood. Why would he now?"

When he finally stopped and looked back up at the doctor, his eyes were cold and hard. "One thing I do know for sure John, this is no copycat. I think you and I at least need to start accepting that Rich Brooke, the man that died on the roof that day, was not in fact the real Moriarty." He reached out and touched John's shoulder, needing the moment of reassurance to ground himself, "I'm afraid my three years away may have been for naught. It makes me wonder how many of them I actually caught and how many were ordered to let themselves be. It makes me feel ill..."he sighed.

"Can we go get the photos now?"

Still bursting with questions John nodded and began started off down the hall, feeling a little sick himself. They were almost outside by the time he had organized his thoughts enough to begin interrogating Sherlock for more information.

"Okay. How do we know she didn't just get his words mixed up? And if this is the real Moriarty then why the hell would Rich Brooke, or whoever he was, kill himself that day? I mean he's the one that controlled everything, right? It could still be like your brother said, he just left enough information with someone to pick up where he left off if you came back." John was desperately rambling on, trying to find some sort of explanation that didn't leave them with the fact that Moriarty was alive or that everything Sherlock had done, everything they had gone through, had been a waste.

Standing on the edge of the pavement, waiting for a taxi to hail, John ran a nervous hand through his hair before looking back up at Sherlock.

His expression was grave. Lips were pulled down into an tired frown, and his eyes were half closed as he was running over the crime scenes in his mind. Information on the second was sorely lacking due to his breakdown. He'd have to study the photos carefully. The detective wasn't sure he was going to answer John until the man turned to look at him, eyes alight with worry and a small amount of fear. He let his own eyes fall closed as he drew nearer to the doctor, letting the closeness sharpen his mind.

"She didn't get the words wrong John. Nothing with Moriarty is left to chance. Plus with the amount of pain he inflicted on her, I'm sure those words were burned into her mind. Rich Brooke is easy. I've overestimated the way Moriarty has gotten to people so many times, I'm sure if we delve deeper, we would find Richard had someone or something he needed to protect. It's how this spider works. I know copycats John. Something would be amiss, someone would do something just a little bit wrong. These deviations, they're deliberate. I can feel it. They are so glaringly obvious John. "

He opened his eyes slowly and turned to look down at his partner, "I need you to believe me. It's a lot to ask of you, trust is a lot for me to ask after everything that I've put you through, but I don't think I can do it alone this time." His eyes practically begged, but his face remained emotionless, not willing to let John know just how much he needed him. Not yet.

The last sentence did John in. Placing a hand against Sherlock's forearm John nodded. Honestly he wanted to reach down and intertwine his fingers with Sherlock's, show him that he wasn't going to have to do this alone, not again. But he didn't. Giving Sherlock's arm a small squeeze and meeting his gaze he assured him, "I do. We'll figure this out Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded, his lips pursing together against the swell of gratitude for this man. He didn't know what he had ever done right to deserve John Hamish Watson limping into his life. Whatever it was, he found himself hoping they didn't find out it had been a mistake as he lifted his hand to signal an oncoming taxi.

John watched from the side as Sherlock poured over stacks of photographs from the warehouse where the girl was found. He had tried helping, but after pointing out two useless pieces of information it had become evident that he was there for moral support, not for expertise. They had taken over one of the conference rooms, the table was covered in photos as if Sherlock was trying to recreate the scene.

He could see Lestrade come on to the floor in a rush, and Anderson point him towards the conference room. When the DI came in the room John wandered over to meet him. He spoke in a hushed tone, Sherlock would surely hear him, but he'd also let John deal with explaining what was going on as long as he was preoccupied.

"He says we're not dealing with a copycat."

"How does he know? It can't be anything but that... We found Moriarty dead on top of Bart's that day." He kept his voice down as well as he looked to the genius who was pouring himself over the crime scene photos like they held the secrets of the world.

Leaning towards the detective John attempted to explain, "All of the clues, it's all too perfect. If it was a copycat, there would be deviations. Sherlock's sure it's him. Which means the man from Bart's wasn't the real Moriarty, just some poor sod that got ringed into all of this." It was a difficult thought for John to process, given that poor sod had kidnaped him, strapped bombs to his body and used him as bait. All the same they needed everyone on their side, lest Moriarty try and turn the public against Sherlock again.

Sherlock didn't bother acknowledging Greg. He knew John would take care of his lack of socializing, it was why they made such a good team, they made up for what the other lacked. The detective was rubbing a hand over his face in frustration at the photos when he noticed the scratchy texture. He hadn't shaved in a few days, and he supposed it would do well with his new look to continue not to. He sighed and dropped his hand to the table. His mind was distracting itself from the problem at hand. He needed to regroup.

"Okay the clues that were given... I gave you their number. I thought you might call, flirting's over, daddy's had enough, and your heart would be bleeding soon enough..." He tapped each quote on the whiteboard as he rattled them off under his breath, "call... their..." He looked back at the photos squinting. He started moving closer, his face screwed up in a determined expression.

"Dammit what am I missing?!" He cried out, slamming his hands down on the table and shoving several photos together. His head was hung for a moment as he took a deep breath calming himself. When he looked back up to move them back his eyes widened. Seeing the reaction instantly, John took a few steps forward hoping to see what epiphany Sherlock had just had.

"Oh you sneaky devilish dog!" He cried moving some photos around so that the were overlapping, "but there aren't enough numbers..." he looked at it again and snapped his fingers at himself, "This wasn't the only crime scene... How could I not have seen this!? Quick I need a pen and paper and the photos from the first crime scene as well.."

Lestrade just stood staring at Sherlock like he'd gone mad. John just shook his head, the obvious excitement emanating from the other man was slightly intoxicating, but John couldn't let the fact that he too enjoyed the chase slip, not in front of Lestrade.

"NOW!" Sherlock bellowed, spurring the DI into action as he frantically arranged the photos on the table.

As Lestrade stalked from the room in search of the other crime scene photos John moved to Sherlock's side. He understood now what Sherlock was seeing. When they had found Joan there had been blood splattered all around her, but now it looked as though it wasn't by accident. Lines of blood against the concrete floor were placed in such away that they made roman numerals, Sherlock had lined up the photos from the crime scene so four number's were clearly visible.

"You think the other numbers were at the first crime scene?" John tried to pull up the memory of the girl's flat, but his visual memory had nothing on Sherlock's. He remembered the girl, little bits about their apartment, but no numbers.

"It has to be. There are four numbers here, at the second crime scene. The other seven will be hidden in the first I'm sure..."

Just about then, Lestrade returned with the requested photos and a pen with a small pad that boasted the yard's insignia.

Sherlock took the photos and moved to the smaller table in the conference room. Where the blood lay around her head he could see three numbers almost instantly now that he knew what he was looking for, but as he started laying out the other photos he began to worry. He had the area code and the last four numbers... Now he needed the ones in the middle. John stood to the side of the table, his arms crossed against his chest, waiting for Sherlock to find what he needed.

He started laying the photos out more, scouring them all in minute detail until he let out a frustrated cry. The numbers weren't anywhere that he could see. How was he supposed to figure out the numbers if he couldn't see them. Something snapped and he spread out the photos once more.

"Lestrade...I'll need to see the victim's body. Tell Molly to contact me once she's retrieved the body. I'm sure that the body has been released already." He said stonily. The DI nodded and trotted off to comply.

John waited until he heard door click behind him before speaking, his tone hushed but feverish, "So what happens when you find these numbers? We just ring up them up and say what?," His voice took on a falsetto tone, "Oh hiya, could you please tell us a little about yourselves? A raging lunatic might be out to kill you just to get our bloody attention?" His voice had risen towards the end and he was leaning towards the taller man, his breath ragged with a hint of the gripping fear slipping through his bitter sarcasm.

His defensive stance only lasted a few moments before he turned away, combing a hand through his hair. This wasn't supposed to be happening, none of this. Sherlock had only just come back, he needed time to recover, to get over all of the demons that haunted them. They just needed time, John thought bitterly as he turned to face Sherlock again, the facade had broken.

He met Sherlock's impossible gaze long enough to show that he was terrified, before it faltered and fell. One hand came to his face to pull at his lips nervously before nodding resolutely, the soldier returning.

"Alright, yeah sorry. What's the plan?" Sherlock always had the plan, it was John's job to make sure they'd live through whatever insanity the detective came up with.

"We tell them the truth and we try to protect them. Isn't that the best idea? Make them aware of what is coming for them so they can protect themselves until we get there." The momentary slip in John's facade had killed him, but he wasn't about to let both of them break down.

"I'm sorry I dragged you into all of this John." His face was expressionless as he stared down at the photos. Thankfully Lestrade strode back in, before John had a chance to reply.

"Good news, Molly said she hadn't released the body yet. She said she'd been waiting for you to show up to take a look. She said she would pull it out for you now."

"Thank you Lestrade." he said quietly, "I'll head that way presently." The DI nodded and sensing there was something that he was intruding on he left them alone. Sherlock guided John by a hand on the shoulder out into the lobby and towards the elevator. He needed to go see Molly alone. He needed to speak with her about things John wasn't ready to hear yet.

"You don't need to appologise you know." He spoke under his breath, keeping their conversation out of the ears of Lestrade's team, but he knew Sherlock would hear him. "Just because I want things to be different doesn't mean I blame you for all of this." Back in control of his emotions they walked in silence until they were outside of the precinct. "I needed you back Sherlock, whatever the hell is going on you're not going to face it alone, not again."

Sherlock was surprised by the admission at first but he merely waved John's words away, knowing there was no way the man could understand the turmoil rolling around in his mind from the entire situation.

"I'll be going to see Molly alone. I need you to return home. However don't get too comfortable, I could need you to go at a moment's notice." He knew John would argue but they didn't have time.

Before the blonde could however, a cab pulled in beside them, and he slid inside. "Just trust me John." He pleaded before closing the door and allowing the cab to pull him away from the only person that could keep him grounded. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he decided to finally acknowledge John's statement. It was easier without John in front of him, and he sighed as he typed out the short message.

You should -SH

John ground his teeth bitterly as the black taxi pulled away from the curb. The text came through as he hailed his own cab. Shaking his head he shot directions to 221b at the cabbie before responding.

You didn't cause any of this. -JW

Sending the message John kept his phone out, his fingers tapping impatiently against the screen as he waited.

The detective felt his phone go off and looked at the text with a bored expression. John was so ignorant, he inwardly sighed and decided to grace the other with a piece of the guilt that was running through his mind.

Not directly. But this is all because of me - SH

Moriarty would have always been the criminal he is. You're just clever enough to pose a threat. What might he have done if you weren't here to stop him? -JW

Your faith in me is astounding John Watson. I'm not sure what I've done to warrant it... -SH

Sherlock put his phone away, ignoring the vibration in his pocket. He was done talking about the matter, anything said after that was pointless and would only serve to put him in a worse mood. The ride to the morgue was uneventful once he stopped texting, and before he knew it he was smiling as he pushed open the doors of the morgue. Molly was standing in front of the examination table, a look of excitement and nervousness playing across her features.

"Welcome back Sherlock." She said meekly, her smile seeming to light up finding his matching one in place.

"Molly." he replied a little softly, striding forward and placing a soft kiss on her cheek, "It's been too long." She blushed a bit and lifted a hand to her cheek before turning to the corpse on the table.

"We all missed you." Sherlock took the few moments he'd been able to look at her face, and now with her attention on the corpse to make a few deductions. New perfume. A necklace she couldn't afford on her salary. Healthy glow to her cheeks. Although nervous, her normal awkward uncomfort seems neutralized.

"Molly my dear, how long have you had a boyfriend? Six months? I do hope he's better than your last." he said, his smile growing just a tad. She whipped around to face the detective, surprised at first, but her smile returned quickly.

"Eight months." She corrected, "His name is Derek and he's absolutely wonderful Sherlock." She ignored his joke about Jim, and he took it in stride.

"I'm very happy for you." She smiled at him for a moment before acknowledging the body of Sherly once more.

"She died from blood loss." she informed him, "I have a sample prepared for you. We found a strange substance in her blood. I figured you'd want to take a look at it."

For a moment Sherlock was torn between taking a quick look at the offered samples and scouring Sherly's body for the missing numbers. He was opening his mouth to ask for the samples when John's voice echoed down the hallways of his mind palace.

'There are peoples lives at stake!' An echo of a memory from one of their many 'not good' arguments on social behavior. With a heavy sigh he turned instead. "Unfortunately I don't have time to look, I have to find these numbers. However, tell me what you've found on your own."

Molly looked surprised for the second time, but began speaking as Sherlock scoured Sherly's body for numbers, "Well it's an organic substance. It has traces of a foliage that only grows in Columbia. It looks like it shares some common ingredients with minor sedatives, but that's all I could find... I'm sorry what exactly are you looking for?" She asked as Sherlock began prodding at different folds of Sherly's skin to see every inch of it.

"Numbers that could aid in our investigation." He said lifting the dead woman's small breast with a pair of forceps to peer at the area underneath.

"You mean like the ones on her foot?" Sherlock looked up suddenly and came to stand beside Molly at the corpse's feet. There in the arch of her left foot was the three missing numbers written in ballpoint ink.

"Why didn't you tell me about this before?!" Sherlock asked, typing a quick message to Lestrade with the full number, demanding an address.

"I only found it just before you came in, and I thought it was a tattoo or something." Moly said, her cheeks flushing brightly.

"Impossible, the fading isn't consistent with a tattoo."He dialed the number and put the phone up to his ear, ignoring the prompt it gave him that he had two new messages from John. Molly held her breath, the intensity of the moment making her nervous all over again.

The phone rang twelve times befor the answer phone picked up, "You've reached Sheldon and Josiah! We can't-" Sherlock ended the call. Twelve o'clock on a Tuesday afternoon, they could be working, but it was better to be safe and check it out. His phone pinged, the address from Lestrade.

"Everything alright Sherlock?"

"I believe we've found the next victim, Lestrade's just sent me the address, I'm afraid I must be off. We'll catch up soon." He smiled at her then, and turned to go, practically feeling her smile on his back. At the doors, he turned back to see her moving to put the body away and cleared his throat lightly to get her attention.

"Thank you Molly... for everything. I know it wasn't easy what I asked you to do..." Molly stopped him by lifting a hand.

"Sherlock, I will never regret helping you. You saved lives that day. But I don't talk to John. Lying to him was easier than it should have been, but I didn't have to see him again after your funeral. You should be thanking your brother. I can't imagine having to watch John fall apart like that. It was hard enough watching what they played on the news. It was all I could do not to run and tell him you were alright just to see him smile again." Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and Molly's eyes fell to the floor, a bit saddened.

"Just promise me one thing Sherlock. Don't do something like this to him again. He won't survive it. I'm sure you know that by now, with how smart you are, but I'm serious, and I want you to know that I'm not exaggerating. If you leave him to think you're dead like that again... you might as well be putting the gun in his hand." Her eyes were uncharacteristically hard when they lifted to his once more., and the detective found himself nodding in assent.

"I know." Came his soft reply, "I'll see you soon Molly." With that he slipped out the door, raising his mobile to his ear once more, his chest wrenching as it rang.

The flat felt ominous without Sherlock's presence, the memory of his life before the detectives return loomed over him darkly. John blindly made his way to the bed he'd been sharing with the detective, falling back into it without a second thought. He was knocked from his nostalgia as he took in the smell of the fresh sheets. They no longer smell like dust, a reminder of how empty the room had been. A new mingled scent filled his senses as his head hit the pillow. Clean sheets, tea, sweat, and something unidentifiable but completely theirs.

A weight seemed to fall off his shoulders as he let out a deep breath. It was the first time he'd been alone since Sherlock's return, and suddenly it felt as if everything was going to be alright. He knew they weren't out of the woods yet, even if it that knowledge was buried deep in the recesses of his mind. For now, Sherlock was back and they were okay, or as well as they could be. That being said it was a little nice to have a moment away from the brooding detective without worrying what it was he was doing. Sherlock had a right to talk to Molly alone, he could only imagine how she was going to take his reappearance.

Be nice. JW

He shot the text off to Sherlock quickly, although he was sure Sherlock had already made it to the morgue, just to ensure he remembered to tread carefully with Molly. They were all over the newspaper and the news already so hopefully she wouldn't be too shocked by his sudden reappearance.

John considered fetching his laptop to see just how bad the damage was, how the public was taking the sudden reappearance of his flatmate, that was until another idea struck. It was the first time Sherlock hadn't been by his side or rushing him out the door in three days. Three long, emotionally draining days.

Sherlock had said not to get too comfortable, but it wouldn't take long. Besides, to say he was pent up was an understatement. Trying to block out everything else John closed his eyes, running one hand down the front of his button down shirt slowly undoing the clasps, pushing his shirt open as he went until his fingers brushed the buckle of his belt. He palmed himself through his new jeans, not bothering to muffle the soft moan the simple touch drew from him. Arousal was quickly coursing through him, his jeans growing considerably tighter.

Undoing his belt and trouser he pushed them, along with his pants, low on his hips, just enough to free his throbbing member. He moved slowly, wanting to enjoy the bit of time he had. His fingers ghosted over his glans, gasping at the delicate touch. Foregoing lube or lotion in a sudden haste John wrapped his right hand around himself, a habit from his war wound leaving his left hand incapable for so long.

A reel of images soared through Johns mind. His memory was far from eidetic, so the flashes of images and remembered sensations were short and sporadic. A mixture of past experiences and bad porn. Soft curves, fingers carding through his hair, a feminine voice asking for more, deeper, harder. John's hips thrust up from the bed as his hand worked up and down his shaft in bursts, quickly growing erratic. His left hand twisted into the sheets of his bed, their bed.

Before John could stop his mind from straying it was stealing images from years ago. Sherlock's face flush with the chase, chest heaving, sweat rolling down his sharp cheekbones. The image was painfully clear, all dark curls and his voice. A part of him said stop, stop before you let this happen, but he was too far gone. Eyes pressed closed tightly, the scent of their sheets filled him as he came across his stomach with Sherlock's name on his lips.

It was a few blissful moments before the world crashed back into focus around John, and when it did he almost wished it hadn't. He sat up a bit, looking down at the mess he'd made in shame. He'd just wanked to Sherlock Bloody Holmes, in his own bed no less. Throwing his head back into the pillows in anguish he let out a defeated groan.

He supposed there was no denying it now, he wanted more from Sherlock than he believed the detective was capable of wanting, let alone giving. What was it anyways? Grabbing a forgotten flannel from the side table John wiped himself clean and tossed the evidence into the hamper as he thought the question over.

What was it? What did he want from Sherlock? It frightened John a bit that he couldn't pin down his own desires, he was supposed to be the emotionally stable one between the two of them. Tucking himself back into his trousers and fixing his clothes John ticked off his options.

Attraction? Well considering what had just happened that was an obvious given. He was attracted to the lunatic, that was for sure. Generally he leaned towards women when he thought about attraction, but that didn't mean he'd never appreciated the solid planes of a man's body. He'd long since accepted the fact that sexuality isn't black and white thanks to Harry.

Infatuation? Possibly. He loved Sherlock, he had for some time, but defining that love was easier said than done. He was Sherlock's friend, his only friend, and he loved him in that way of course, but with his mind still pleasantly filled with a post orgasmic haze he couldn't help but consider the idea that he was now attached to Sherlock in a much deeper way now.

Then of course, he had to ask himself how misplaced his feelings for the detective were. He had avoided any meaningful relationships since Sherlocks departure, and even before then he hadn't had an actual long term relationship since university. Was he simply searching for intimacy from the person closest to his heart. And if he was, was that wrong?

The last of the ease his release had granted him was quickly fading away and a dark voice in the back of his said the one thing he was avoiding. Losing Sherlock before had almost killed him, and he was fairly certain if he accepted these feelings he wouldn't be able to handle the detectives loss again. No, that would be the end of John. Part of him couldn't trust Sherlock with that power, not so soon.

John had been so lost in his own mind when his phone began to vibrate violently on the side table that he almost fell from edge of the bed. Fumbling for his phone he realized it was Sherlock. The case. Trying to pull himself together enough that he didn't totally give away the war waging in his mind John answered the phone.

"Sherlock. Hi. uhm.. The numbers, you find them?" John pinched his brow between his fingers as he stumbled over his words, his voice cracking slightly as he repeated the name he moaned out barely minutes before.

"Yes..." the detective trailed off for a moment before relaying the address, "I'll need you to meet me there. And I do hope you didn't make a mess in the bed John. That would be very uncomfortable to sleep in."

John choked on a laugh that somehow ripped from his chest. Leave it to Sherlock to have already worked out what he'd been up to with absolutely zero tact. Luckily for John's sanity, Sherlock's present company did not cross his mind as he threw back a retort. "Oh shove it. We don't all consider our bodies transport, alright? Are Lestrade and his team already on their way?"

He was already out the door, slipping on his jacket as he stepped out to the curb to hail a cab. His mind quickly fell back to the victims and the new address. He'd promised Joan they wouldn't let this happen again, and god, he desperately hoped he could keep that promise.

"Yes, with paramedics. Meet you there." Sherlock hung up the phone and slid into a cab of his own, relaying the address for a second time, and assuring the cabbie he would have a hefty bonus the quicker he arrived.


	18. I Caught Fire

After what seemed like far too long, Sherlock's cab pulled up to the address Lestrade had given him. Across the street, He could see john emerging from his own cab and met up with the doctor, his eyes searching for the DI. The lights were on, but Sherlock couldn't see anyone moving about inside. Lestrade's police cruiser came around the corner, and he tumbled out in a whirlwind, nodding to the both of them and taking pointe, leading them all to the front door, where it gave to his knock. The lock had been broken. Greg pulled his gun and headed into the house, the two civilians following. Greg cleared the hallway as they heard the ambulance sirens pulling up outside.

When the trio turned around a corner, into the sitting room, they found Josiah and Sheldon. They looked very much like John and Sherlock, save for the new red hair of course, and the fact that the blonde was in a wheelchair, but that wasn't what was on everyone's minds. The couple was positioned in the center of the room, facing each other. Their foreheads were pressed together and they were gagged and bound so that they couldn't move or speak. There was a fair amount of blood around them and Sherlock could see thick droplets where it had coagulated as it dripped down their chests. They were both were shaking profusely as their bodies fought to... What?

Lestrade barreled forward trying to go to their aid just as Sherlock saw the wire connecting the two men together from gaping chest wounds. His arm shot out and grabbed John by the back of the shirt hauling him back behind himself as he tried to call out to stop the Detective Inspector, but he was too late.

Time seemed to slow as Greg reached forward and grabbed the blonde. Sherlock saw tears running down the men's face as they shared one frightened, loving last look. The moment Lestrade touched the two the wire was tripped, and an explosion ripped from the blonde's chest.

A loud boom and shockwave knocked John and Sherlock both back. Managing to find his bearings, Sherlock stood to assess the situation. No one else had made it into the house yet. The dark haired man was sobbing and screaming through his gag, Greg was crumpled on the ground in front of him. The other man however, the one that had looked like John, that could have been John, had been destroyed by the blast, his body mutilated beyond recognition. Both men that were still alive had pieces of metal and bone stuck in their skin, and a large piece of bone had lodged itself in Lestrade's arm, he wasn't moving and blood was pooling around him faster than it should have.

"John! Go get the medical team quick, tell them to call the bomb squad!" He said shakily, stopping long enough to help John back on to his feet and push him toward the door before rushing to Lestrade's side.

Ears ringing from the explosion, John stumbled along the hallway toward the door. He was unscathed, but thoroughly shaken, the blast bothering him quite a bit more than it had Sherlock for obvious reasons. It took him longer than it should to make it outside, and by the time he had the backup was already running up to the building. Sally caught him by the arm as he stumbled forward.

"John what happened?" Somewhere in the back of his mind he noted how her sneer disappeared when it really mattered.

Shaking his head and leaning on the officer a bit he told her what he could.

"I don't know. There was an explosion, Sherlock saw something and tried to stop us. Leatrades injured, one of the vics is dead, the other needs medical assistance." Giving her a small push toward the commotion John urged her, "Go. Go! They need a bomb squad in there."

Cataloging himself quickly, something he'd picked up in military training, John made sure he had no serious injuries. Everything was moving, no gushing blood, that was good enough.

When the EMT's rushed into the room after the bomb squad Sherlock backed off of Lestrade. He'd kept a watchful eye on them as they checked him over and prepared him for transport. From where he stood, he could see that the bone protruding from Lestrade's arm had also pierced his side. That accounted for all the blood. With nothing more for him to do to help the DI he moved to the man still taped to the chair, and started examining him ignoring the odd looks he got from the bomb squad. He could see that the wire had been hooked up to look like there was a bomb in both chests, but this man did not house any explosives. He slowly reached forward and took the tape off of the man's mouth.

"He told us it was in one of us... He didn't tell us which one... Oh god... Josiah..." The man broke down into sobs, not even realizing that he was still taped to smoking body parts of his lover. Sherlock was not a doctor or a therapist, but even he could see two things were evident. One was that this man would live, despite his substantial injuries, and two, that he would never recover from the events that had passed this night.

John was about to head back inside the house when he saw a familiar black car skid in behind the line of squad cars. Mycroft slid out of the back seat and hurried across the yard to the front door faster than John had ever seen the elder Holmes move. Without even a side glance at John he hurried inside, a sort of frantic determined look painted across his features.

Following in Mycroft's wake John frantically pushed past the hoard of people inside the room. His eyes scoured the scene for Sherlock.

Mycroft had already found Lestrade being evaluated by the medical team, dropping to his knees beside the DI he placed a protective hand against the small of his back.

"I told you not to get hurt." He had leaned forward, his forehead almost pressing against Lestrade's temple. His normal stoic appearance barely rippled, but his eyes fell shut for a moment as he swallowed hard against the rising tide of emotions.

John was surprised to see the affection coming from Mycroft, not to mention the fact that he seemed to have come from nowhere. Almost in a daze Sherlock moved away from the victims as he watched his brother bustle in and go to Lestrade's side. Just then an EMT came up and tried to check him out. Apparently when the blast had knocked him back, a piece of shrapnel had nicked his forehead and it had bled quite a bit, but he was fine. He'd rather the EMT help Lestrade. He was the one hurt. The woman smelled of too much perfume anyway and as her fingertips touched his face, he smacked her hand away. The revulsion he felt from the unwanted contact made him feel like retching, and he gave her a stern stare that warned he couldn't be held responsible if she touched him again.

Seeing Sherlock batting at one of the responders attempts to check his vitals John hurried to his side. The room was overwhelmed with people, the bomb squad and medical team essentially blocking the victims from Johns view.

"God Sherlock. Are you alright?" On his third attempt to shoo the girl away the responder gave up, moving to help with the others, only to be replaced by John who quickly began assessing the injury.

"I'm fine..." Sherlock said in a daze John's touch more than welcome and calming his roiling stomach. His eyes rose to John's face and a million possibilities and visions lept to the forefront of his mind. John with the bomb planted in his chest, Sherlock weeping over the loss, John dead... John murdered... John in pieces. His arms shot out, wrapping around the smaller man, pulling him close and hugging him tight. It could have been John, so easily this situation could have ended with John.

"That could have been us..." he said softly, his voice barely a whisper. Something about seeing his brother so emotional over the injuries of his lover, and the striking resemblance of the men to themselves heightened his nerves. His long fingers gripped tightly around John, he couldn't get the man close enough to convince himself that the doctor was safe. "It could have been you, and it's my fault..."

Johns breath caught in his chest as the detective enveloped him in the crushing embrace. His hands found hold, one against the back of Sherlock's neck, the other wrapped tightly around his back. Closing his eyes John saw the image of the two men before Sherlock had pulled him back.

"It's okay Sherlock, it's okay." John assured him, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck softly on instinct. "This isn't your fault. None of it is. I'm here and I'm fine. We're fine." His voice was barely above a whisper by the end. "It's okay."

It was as if the rest of the world was moving silently around them. The moment Sherlock had wrapped his arms around John the rest of existence had faded and all that mattered was keeping each other tethered to each other and this moment.

Sherlock pulled back, looking down into John's eyes. Being mixed up with this murderer, being in constant danger, this could easily be his last chance. One hand slid up to the side of John's neck, fingers curling back around the back, his thumb gently pressing against his jaw to tilt it back slightly. John froze, his heart felt like it was beating wildly out of his chest.

Never in his life had Sherlock wanted to do something more than to kiss the fire out of John Watson, pouring all his revelries, all his feeling into that one action. His other hand came up, both sliding to the sides of his face, thumbs brushing over dirty cheeks, and fingers cradling his head. He wanted to prove to that part of his mind that was careening out of control that they were both alive, and John wasn't going anywhere. Not right now. The detective's brain started swimming and his eyes were focused on the blonde's lips when he heard Donovan calling his name from across the room.

Blinking he looked up into John's eyes and realized that he was not ready, not yet. His pupils were blown, his pulse beating out of control, but his arms had fallen from around the detective. Johns chest was rising and falling rapidly, and he couldn't decide what he wanted. John wanted it, yes that much was obvious to Sherlock, but he wasn't ready to admit it.

Sherlock decided then and there that he would rather never have the chance than to mess things up so royally. So instead, he pressed his forehead to John's and closed his eyes tight. "Thank you." he whispered softly before turning to see Sally walking up, dodging people that were milling around, working on the evidence. He released the doctor before she could notice the intimacy they had just shared, his hands falling from their position on his face. He'd have to settle for close proximity to reassure his anxious mind.

"They're taking Lestrade to Bart's. I can take you two back with me, but if you want a lift you'll need to come now." She said, her usual frown in place, but noticeably lacking in the snark department.

"Right away, John will go with you." he said, pushing at the man's shoulder to follow her, "I'm going to take a few minutes just to look over the crime scene before we leave. While the photos are good, my mind is better." She started to protest, but he gave her a no nonsense look before turning back to the mess before him.

John wanted to argue, but his mind was buzzing as he was shoved toward Sally who took Sherlock's word and wrapped an arm around the doctor leading him away. He knew Sherlock was right anyways, they'd waste a lot less time if he had the chance to properly look around. Maybe they would be able to stop the next attack before it happened.

The other thing that kept John from arguing was the moment before Donovan had interrupted, when Sherlock's gaze had dropped to Johns lips and he had been so sure he was about to kiss him. John wondered, as he was led out to Donovan's squad car, what would have happened had she not spoke up. As he leaned against the window, avoiding any dialogue with the woman beside him, John realized he was a both unimaginably thankful and disappointed that he may never know that answer.

Once they'd left he began searching around the room. No clues that he could see, but he took mental snapshots and filed them away in his mind palace. As he strode towards the exit, he felt his phone buzz in a reminder that he had an unread text. Pulling it out, he saw the most recent text demanding that he be nice to Molly, but as he read on he stopped at the door, leaning against the wall in reaction to what he saw.

There was his last text to John,

Your faith in me is astounding John Watson. I'm not sure what I've done to warrant it... -SH

and then there was John's response that he hadn't thought was worth reading.

Everything - JW

Sherlock felt strangely immature as he clutched the phone to his chest, as if the warmth in that word could seep through the device. He blinked quickly and shoved the phone back in his pocket before anyone saw him acting like an idiot. However, when he climbed into the back of Sally's squad car, he wrapped his arms around himself, trying to keep the warmth he had felt from leaving his body.

John kept quiet as he heard the door slam shut, he could see Sherlock wrapped up in himself in the back seat. The ride to the hospital was deathly silent, but thankfully quick due to their flagrant use of sirens and lights. Donovan couldn't even throw an insult as the men silently stepped out of the car. The two walked up and through the doors into the emergency room with a word. John stole a look as Sherlock held open the door, but could find nothing in his expression.

They were barely in the waiting room when Mycroft stepped out of the swinging doors, motioning for Sherlock and John to follow him. The young woman behind the counter looked as though she might argue, but after a pointed look from a rather ruffled Mycroft, she nodded them through, obviously intimidated. Once the doors had swung shut he was hurrying down a series of halls, the other two on his heels.

"Sherlock, I assume you can best explain what happened to Greg? The nurse needs an accurate explanation so they will leave him alone." His voice was strained, a hint of emotion bleeding through.

Mycroft glared at the nurse, still badgering Lestrade for information, as he entered the room. Taking up the seat already pulled close to the hospital bed he shooed her away. "He's given you enough, if you need to know anything else they'll help you." He finished with a nod toward John and Sherlock.

Shaking her head the woman swept from the room, muttering that the doctor would be in soon. She had obviously had enough of the first Holmes to decide she didn't need any more experience with the family.

Sherlock didn't go into the room, and he caught John by raising a hand. In the room Mycroft was sitting with a bandaged Lestrade, and despite the horrible circumstances, the Detective Inspector was awake and smiling. Sherlock watched him laugh tiredly to reassure his lover and grip onto Mycroft's hand with a fervor he was jealous of. Greg glanced at the window, and saw the two watching. He raised his free hand in greeting and gave them the 'ok' sign. Sherlock nodded, but didn't leave as Greg turned back to the elder Holmes.

Mycroft looked worried, but Greg pulled him forward with a tug on his tie and gave him a chaste kiss on the lips. Neither of them looked around or worried about who saw them, and that fact made Sherlock even more jealous. How delightful it must be to feel so easy in a relationship. But he knew he wouldn't give up what he had for all the tea in England. The two men in the room were looking at each other intently when he finally sighed, releasing some of the tension he felt, but not nearly enough.

"I never would have thought when I was younger that I would ever envy my brother, let alone a relationship like theirs..." his voice was soft, and he wasn't even really sure he'd said it at first, but rerunning his internal videotape, he realized he had. He turned, allowing himself to fix John with a meaningful look, a slight flush coloring his sharp cheekbones. The stare caused John's mouth to go dry, his mind tried desperately to understand Sherlock's motives, he had been so sure that was the last thing Sherlock wanted. What did this say about them?

The desire to show John exactly how much he cared, to kiss him once more resurfaced, roaring like a wildfire through his veins and across his face, but he grit his teeth and refused to let it get the better of him. Instead he turned away as Sally bustled down the hallway, and poked his head around the door.

"Sorry to interrupt, but it sounds like the nurse is going to leave him alone, and it seems he has more visitors..." he caught his brothers eye as Sally pushed her way around the detective, "We'll bid you adieu and let Greg recover. You know where to find us." Greg nodded, and Sherlock was out the door. No doubt if he'd had his old coat on, it would be swirling around him dramatically.

"Coming John?"

Still working through the new information John nodded absentmindedly, "Yeah, coming." He followed behind the detective quickly. He hadn't been surprised by the exchange between Mycroft and Greg, not really anyways. If anything he had been relieved. Greg was his friend, and he knew the Holmes, almost better than anyone, so it was good to know that Mycroft was capable of such emotions.

What John had not expected was Sherlocks response. He supposed it made sense, Mycroft had always been the one to remind his younger brother that sentiment was a weakness. So perhaps seeing the man he'd secretly admired his entire life so openly in love had broadened Sherlock's mind to the idea.

That left John with one thing to think about. If Sherlock did want a relationship, and want one with him; was John ready for that? It was something John would have to seriously consider when they weren't chasing a vicious and gruesome murderer.

"What now?" John tried to bury the emotions piling up, something that was normally Sherlocks role. "Any clues at the crime scene?"

"None that I could see, but then again that was what I thought about the last one. I'll take some photos home and look over them until the other victim wakes up, they've heavily sedated him from what I understand." The detective was scanning through the text messages he'd been ignoring the entire car ride over, "I don't know how willing he will be to talk, but we will see whether Moriarty gave him a clue for us. For now, I think the best thing we can do is go home, let me search the photographs, and prepare. You need rest, I can see the exhaustion in the way you're carrying yourself, and you're favoring your leg heavily again. We'll stop by the yard on the way home for the photos. I'm sure you're hungry too." His tone called for no argument as they exited the hospital.

True to his word they only made a quick stop at Scotland Yard where Anderson had grudgingly made him copies of the photos, and before long they were making their way up the stairs in 221B. Sherlock immediately headed for the wall above where the two chairs were now, and began tacking the photos up. John on the other hand went for the kitchen. After preparing tea for the both of them he was back at Sherlock's side, pushing a cup into the detectives hands. The two of them stared at the puzzle that had laid before them.

"There has to be something right?" The only thing worse than Moriarty taking more victims was him not giving them the clues they needed to stop him.

Stroking a hand over his slightly scratchy chin, his eyes were traveling back and forth over the photos quickly, taking in information and comparing them to the mental snapshots he'd taken earlier Sherlock responded almost absently. "John if you're to assist me with this case you'll need food and rest. I may go without it but I'm the intellect. If we're to take down Moriarty together, we'll need your physique as well..." He trailed off taking a step forward and tracing his finger across something that obviously didn't pan out by the mumbled curse under his breath before taking a sip of the tea that had been forced upon him.

John shook his head and walked back to the kitchen, settling on the leftover chinese he pulled a bar stool to the edge of the kitchen and watched as Sherlock meticulously ran his eyes over every inch of paper, desperate for new information. Finishing the food John pushed the chair back to it's intended spot and walked back over to Sherlock. He was lost, somewhere between his mind palace and the scene plastered over their walls. Realizing he wasn't needed, John let one hand come to rest on Sherlock's shoulder before turning away.

"I'll be in bed then. Try and get some sleep too." And he left the detective to his work, heading for the bed they apparently now shared, John slipped between the covers and closed his eyes.

Sleep did not come easy, not after the excitement of the day, and when it did it wasn't peaceful. It was nothing like the terror he'd had a few nights before, but all the same, images flashed through his mind painfully. They rotated, from the war, to Barts, to the two men sharing one last look before the bomb went off. It was enough to cover John, writhing and crying out softly into his pillow, in a sheen of cold sweat.

Sherlock had felt the loss of John's presence deeply, but he knew the other man needed his sleep. He wasn't sure how long he'd been staring at the photos, or how long it had been since John went to bed, but when the soft cries began to ring out, he bolted to his room, crime scene forgotten.

John was having another nightmare, and Sherlock stripped off his coat and shoes quickly, sliding in beside his doctor and pulling the man into his chest, whispering and shushing softly. He was still asleep, and slowly the man's body began to relax as it registered Sherlock's presence. Although he hated that John had these nightmares, the detective was flattered that he was the one that could calm him like this.

He swore to himself then and there that as long as it was within his power, John would never sleep by himself again. Even though he didn't sleep more than an hour or so, he lay there, holding the man in his slumber until the morning roused them both.

**A/N:** One more chapter you guys. We will be doing a youtube video for you guys after this is over. Part two will start after a short hiatus. Send us your love and questions 3


	19. Running Away

Days came and went with no change. Sherlock poured over evidence and badgered Lestrade's team, who did not have the more amiable DI to keep tensions under control due to his injuries. John kept the peace between themselves and the precinct, and insisted periodically that the detective eat something. He didn't have to ask Sherlock to sleep though, the moment John began showing exhaustion he would put away whatever they had been working on, or, if they were at the morgue or the lab or the precinct, insist that they were going home. John was pretty sure he lie awake most of the time, his mind too busy to actually sleep, but at least he was getting some sort of rest.

Unfortunately there seemed to be no more clues. On the other hand, there had been no more attacks either. John tried to find this as a good thing, maybe Moriarty had grown bored of whatever game he'd been playing. Maybe it was really over. Sherlock was not quite so optimistic. At least the rush of the case had seemed to be enough to keep Sherlock's mind busy.

The morning of the fourth day since the last attacks John rolled over to find Sherlock still asleep, it was a rare sight. Their relationship, or lack thereof, had not changed since Sherlock's comment at the hospital. Everything had been revolving around the stagnant case, and John couldn't help but wonder (after Sherlock spent almost two days staring at the same photos) if Sherlock wasn't using the case a bit. It didn't matter really, John had sort of been glad for it. He was too attached to lose the little physical relationship they had, keeping things status quo was safe. Part of him knew it was selfish, but he didn't care.

But as John lie beside the detective, he had to admit to himself, he wanted more. Sherlock was laying on his back, his eyes peacefully closed, one arm wrapped around John's shoulders and back, the other stretched across his own torso to grab at the fabric of John's shirt. The blonde lay on his side, legs slightly intertwined, one arm stretched across Sherlock's chest, his head neatly fit against the taller man's shoulder.

Nervously, John wriggled closer, nuzzling his nose in the space where the detectives neck met his collar bone. Closing his eyes, he wondered how he had ever not been comfortable like this, wrapped up in the pale lanky body sprawled out before him. After a moment he pulled back and adjusted himself so he could prop his head up on Sherlock's shoulder, his chin pressing into the other softly.

"Sherlock," he started, "Sherlock." the hand stretched across his torso began tracing small shapes on Sherlock's forearm. "We have to get up."

"No..." Came the soft and childish reply. He felt so wrapped up in John's warmth, like the horrors of the past week were just a nightmare. He had started waking with the nuzzling and the lazy circles being drawn on his skin were threatening to put him back. "Just ten more minutes? Just to lay here? It's cold out there..."

He turned his head a bit and opened his green eyes to take on the blue of his flatmate's. He'd been so focused on the case lately that he hadn't really stopped to just look at him in a while. In that moment he wa glad because the man was more beautiful than he remembered, all tousled hair and drowsy eyes. His own smile gently split his face as he teasingly reached up and pulled John back down to his chest.

Laughing, John conceded. "Fine. Ten minutes, but that's it." John thought of the small box hidden at the back of his own closet fondly. Continuing to let his fingers dance across the skin of Sherlock's arm he went on. "We have a lot to do today, no falling back asleep." Of course Sherlock would choose this day to want to actually sleep and stay wrapped up in each other.

"A lot to do?" He frowned softly. "What do we have to do today other than grocery shopping and staring at photographs?" He closed his eyes and nuzzled back into John's side. "Besides, I never want to sleep in.. Shouldn't you indulge this behavior?"

"You're right, I should but I can't today." John sat up a little again, staring at the detective incredulously. _Did he really not know?_ "We have to clean up the flat, it's a right mess. God knows everyone else isn't going to want to stare at crime scene photos all night And everyone will be expecting a dinner of sorts, I mean I can buy some of it, but I'm still going to have to cook."

John realized Sherlock's time away had made certain things unnecessary, but he looked down at the detective, a small smile pulling at the corner of his lips as he waited for all the pieces to drop into place. "Mrs. Hudson said she has desert's covered though so that helps."

"Everyone... Dinner... John what on earth are you talking about? Why would-" he was cut off as the thought struck him and he replayed all the conversations he'd ignored in favor of focusing on the case.

"Today is Decmeber the 24th... It's Christmas Eve... And I've forgotten..." He felt like an idiot, much like when John used to incessantly tease him about not knowing that the earth went 'round the sun. He screwed his eyes up in frustration for a moment before opening them again and looking up at John.

"Happy Christmas Doctor Watson." He said with a smile.

The smile that had been biting back finally broke through. "Yes, Happy Christmas Sherlock." Then dropping his head again he relaxed back against Sherlock. "So ten minutes, and then we have lots to do." He wasn't particularly upset that Sherlock had forgotten, in fact he had almost expected it. Any time the topic had been brought up he'd responded with the most noncommutative noises imaginable, as he was still totally absorbed in the work.

"Everyone should be coming around by five or so. Should give up plenty of time to get things ready."

Sherlock enjoyed the time he'd been given to stay in the warmth of John's embrace, but soon enough, they were forced to get up and he grabbed some clothing, beating John to the shower. He dressed in the black jeans John liked so much and a black and purple plaid shirt, and ran his fingers through his wet ginger hair. Some of the curl was coming back, and John seemed to like it.

With a smile, he relinquished the shower to his flatmate and scampered off to get ready. He'd had a gift he wanted to give John since he'd come home, and finding out that today was Christmas Eve had spurred him into action. Just before John was done he made tea, and had a steaming cup waiting for him when the doctor walked into the sitting room.

"If you'll sit I have a gift for you..." He was sitting on one end of the couch, looking more relaxed than he felt.

Hair still wet from the shower John looked around, a little bemused, before grabbing the tea and making his way to sit on the sofa. "How. . . . You didn't know it was Christmas till this morning?" All the same he sat in the corner of the sofa so he was facing Sherlock. He had his own present for Sherlock, but it could wait for the moment.

"It's something I've been wanting to give you since I came back, but it never seemed like the right time but now is pretty good I'd say." He smiled and stood to retrieve his violin.

"Now," he said, coming back In front of the couch, tuning the strings with deft fingers, "Keep your eyes focused on me... Can you do that for me John?" The echo of the words from the past made his stomach clench, but he closed his eyes and and raised the violin to his shoulder. John's breath caught in his chest and drawing his bottom lip between his teeth he nodded.

The detective took a deep breath and let the bow slide across the strings in a sad lonely opening note. And then the music began, sounding sad and mournful with harsh blasts every now and then. It reflected the way their lives were before they met, meaningless and without a real motive for being. Then, it picked up. Quick and chaotic, and a whirlwind of notes all in a major key. It was longer than the first, and as he played, he began twirling and winding around the flat, moving between the furniture as they had often moved through London.

Suddenly, he took a step up onto one of the chair's, one foot propped up on the arm as the music took on a whole new somber approach. It was heart wrenching. Minor notes and slow macabre flats began Sherlock's downward spiral as Moriarty had begun turning the world against him. Looking up he met John's eyes, and all the feelings he'd had running through his body, all the thoughts and fears he'd felt up on the roof of Bart's. Now that they were closer, he knew John could feel all of it radiating from his body as well as his violin. A long swell brought him jumping down from the chair, and as soon as his feet hit the ground short staccatos in a sneaky melody began pouring from his violin as he began twirling around the room again, bent low as if he were slipping from shadow to shadow. In breaks from the staccatos, more lonely swells that came closer together towards the end, marking his time away from John.

Then, in the final movement of the composition, soft comforting notes poured from the instrument like liquid silk, almost a lullaby in its sweetness. His homecoming, how he felt being with John now, and how they had come to help each other through all of their problems. He rocked back and forth as he played, his chest and torso swaying to the rhythm, the violin gently cradled in his arms.

When the last note faded, he let the violin gracefully lower from his shoulder and opened his eyes once more, catching Johns with his gaze. He was frozen to his spot on the sofa, his lip trembling dangerously.

"On all the nights when I was frightened, or lonely, I composed this song for you, played the violin in my mind until I had it memorized so that I could play it for you when I came home." He smiled nervously and felt like fidgeting, but forced himself to stand still, waiting for John's reaction.

The blonde had sat awestruck throughout the entire performance, and by the end one hand had found its way to his jaw, covering his mouth, holding back his emotions. As Sherlock explained where the song had come from a few tears finally slipped and slowly John stood to his feet. He moved meticulously across the room, stopping in front of Sherlock to gently take the violin and bow from his hands and set them aside, before pulling the taller man into a heartfelt embrace. One arm wrapped tight over his shoulders, his fingers finding purchase at the collar of his shirt, and the other arm around his thin chest.

Letting out a shaky breath John tried to compose himself himself before letting go, his forehead pressed against the others neck softly, breathing everything that was Sherlock, in. As he pulled away he surreptitiously wiped away a few stray tears before smiling up at Sherlock, and choking out an emotional, "Thank you."

After a moment John bit at the inside of his lip. "I have something for you too. Just stay here." He hesitated for a moment, like he might say something else, before turning away and hurrying up the stairs to his room. Going straight for the closet, which only held his now unused jumpers, he retrieved the small memory box. It was a plain white box with a thin layer of dust. John hadn't opened it in two years. He wiped off the top as he made his way back down stairs, not quite as quickly as he had ascended them.

When he was back in the sitting room he gave Sherlock a nervous, almost sad smile as he walked slowly across the room. He wanted Sherlock to see everything inside the box, but he wasn't sure how the detective would take it. Carefully he set the box on the writing desk and stood back to lean on the arm of the sofa, gesturing for Sherlock to take a look.

Sherlock, who had remained standing, moved to the writing desk and took a seat at the chair, motioning for John to come over closer. Without waiting to see if John would follow his request, his curiosity got the better of him, and he let his slender fingers slip the top off the dusty box.

What he found inside made his throat tighten up and his hands shake. There nestled very neatly inside the box were newspaper clippings, folded papers, a magnet, a small stuffed dog that he deducted was supposed to be a black poodle among other small things.

Lifting some of the newspaper clippings, he found a number of articles about the people who had believed him to be alive and good from the very beginning. There was a photo of a spray painted silhouette of what seemed to be his profile, with the words "I believe in Sherlock" painted above and below it. Some of the folded papers were letters from other people who believed in him, written to John showing their support, and boasting encouragement for him to hang in there. The detective felt his eyes prickling as he picked up the poodle and magnet with the sillouete Sherlock recognized from one of John's infernal television shows, Spock, with an eyebrow raised at the smaller man.

John had moved so he was standing at the side of the desk. When the items in question were raised John choked out a laugh, one hand wrapped around the back of his neck nervously as he shrugged.

"Uhm. . Just things. . . Sometimes, especially at first, if I found things that reminded me of you I'd pick them up." He gestured towards the box. "All that's just from the first year you were gone. Not everyone was horrible, and I managed. I just. . . You needed to know that I was okay. I wanted you back, but I was never without support."

Eyes downcast, John stuffed his hands into the pockets of his trousers. "There's one more letter in there. On the very bottom. . . .It-It's for you." He had never felt more nervous in his life, and as the detective slid the letter out from under everything else John moved to sit on the sofa. His body was shaking slightly and he couldn't stand and watch Sherlock read that. John himself hadn't read it since the day he'd put it in the box.

Sherlock unfolded the letter almost reverently and began to read. By the second time he'd read it, his hands were shaking, causing the paper to quiver with his emotion. Laying it down, he smoothed it out and read it one more time before looking up at John. His eyes were glassy and a little red as they saw the other man sitting on the couch, phrases from the letter repeating in his mind.

_I was supposed to say goodbye then, but I didn't._

He was on his feet.

_I suppose if you don't come back, one day I'll have admit you may be gone. But I'm not saying goodbye. I won't do it._

He made his way around the couch.

_I'll try not to complain when you leave them next to the leftovers. I really will. _

He stopped in front of John, looking down and capturing the man with his gaze.

_And Sherlock, I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry for everything I said before I left you that day. You are not a machine, you are brilliant and human and the most wonderful person I have ever known. I just want to be able to tell you that._

He was unable to keep his feet and fell to his knees, his hips and torso fitting neatly into the space between the doctor's legs.

_Come home soon._

_Yours always_

_Doctor John Hamish Watson_

He was leaning forward then, wrapping his arms around the man, his head resting on the other's chest and hugging him tight. He had known how much John had been hurt. He'd heard it from almost everyone but the man himself, and now John was letting Sherlock in. The doctor was trusting him enough to take this raw and broken part of himself, and give it to the one person that was probably just as broken as he was.

The last part had given him hope. Although he hadn't meant it any way but platonically at the time, John's subconscious had known that there was no way either of them could ever belong to anyone else. They fit together too perfectly. As he burrowed his face deeper into John's stomach, breathing in the scent of him, his mind was occupied by only two words. Mine. Always.

The small amount of will that was keeping John from breaking down disappeared as Sherlock pressed against him. John's forehead dropped to the back of Sherlock's wavy hair, his arms wrapped tightly against the thin man's shoulders as silent tears slipped through. It had been the hardest thing for John to give up, that little wall that had still been between him and Sherlock. His heart felt like it was beating out of his chest, but he couldn't let go. He wanted to say something, anything to convey all of the emotions, but there was nothing to say. He'd said everything he needed to just by handing Sherlock the last piece of himself he'd never intended to give up. Instead, he just pulled Sherlock against himself, letting his eyes fall closed and enjoyed the moment.

Once he felt he as though he could speak normally he pulled his body back up, one hand resting at the base of Sherlock's neck, carding through the short wavy hair there. "So. . . Happy Christmas." He smiled down at the ginger head still pressed against him. He had worried that his gift would be too heavy and intimate, but obviously it seemed to have gone over well. Or at least as well as it could have gone.

John felt a familiar tug in his stomach as his fingers combed through the soft hair at the base of Sherlock's neck, maybe when this case was over they could talk about their relationship, or lack thereof. He still wasn't very sure what Sherlock wanted, but John knew he wanted something more. He wanted something... commitment?

"I didn't mean to upset you, I. . . I promised myself I'd give it to you if I had the chance. . . . So much for avoiding sentiment huh?" John tried to joke, he'd never seen Sherlock so open. It was hard to see how upset he'd made Sherlock, but there was something about it he liked. Sherlock had never been this open with anyone as far as John knew, and he loved that Sherlock trusted him this much to let his defenses down. It gave John his own hope.

"No... no..." he muttered into John's stomach before pulling back so that he could look up into his eyes. "John as I've told you before, I thought about the words you said to me, that last night before... well before all of this. You were right. I was a machine, sentiment doesn't make you weak. It makes you vulnerable yes, but it's not hard to see that two is greater than one..." He took John's hand, sliding it from the back of his neck so that it was pressed against his cheek and leaned into it.

Rubbing his thumb in soft circles against Sherlock's cheekbone Johns brow furrowed as he looked down at him, contemplating. "That's never something I thought I'd ever hear you say." Then after a few moments of silence his face relaxed, a soft warm smile spreading across his features. "Sherlock Holmes and John Watson against the world."

They stayed like that for a moment, Sherlock revelling in the thought that things had been changing for them, and John might be willing to accept it. After he knew they could wait no more, he whisked the man to his feet, and got them ready to go shopping to feed the entire group that evening.

Shopping was less of an anxiety for Sherlock this time. Although he still stuck close to John, they laughed and talked as they perused the aisles for the groceries. Once bought, they walked home, bags in tow, and Sherlock helped John put everything in order. While trying to help him cook though, the detective burned his hand, and the doctor forced him to sit at the bar with an ice cube and a childish pout.

He gave up the pouting however as he watched John flutter through the kitchen making all the normal Christmas foods. He hummed to himself softly in appreciation. How he had ever left the comfort of this place he'd never know. Never had a location he'd slept been considered anything more than just that, but no, 221B Baker Street at some point had become home.

While the turkey they'd bought was cooking, he and John set in on the presents that John had luckily had the forethought to buy from both of them. Sherlock wrapped while John tied the bows, and the detective couldn't help but laugh. The packages were wrapped very meticulously, sharp corners and straight edges, while the bows were bubbly and homey. They were perfect.

_Like us._

He was helping John judge whether the turkey was done or not when the doorbell rang at half five. He offered to get the door and smiled when he found Molly and her tall handsome date standing at the door.

"Molly dear." he said leaning forward to kiss her cheek. He then turned and shook the hand of the stranger. "You must be Derek, we've heard good things about you." Her date, who seemed to be just as meek as she was, but with a strong handshake blushed and smiled at Molly.

_RN at the hospital. Lives alone, parents out of the picture. Long string of unsuccessful and heartbreaking relationships. He's admired her from afar for two years now. Shy, but brave and straightforward. They'll be happy._

"John is upstairs working on the turkey, let me take your bags, I'll put the presents away for you." He took them and ushered the two through the door. They entered the kitchen to say hello to John as Sherlock put the bags by the writing table. From the hall closet, he found the tree they'd used that first Christmas so long ago, and pulled it down. He couldn't imagine why John hadn't set it up yet.

John was just being introduced to Molly's date when he saw Sherlock lugging the small tree out into the sitting room. Molly's eyes widened as her eyes followed the detective across the room.

"Is he...?" She sounded utterly amazed as she turned back to look at John.

Johns eyes didn't leave Sherlock as he nodded, his voice breathy and impressed. "Decorating.. Yeah." Looking back to Molly with an almost shy smile.

"I'm so glad things are working out between you two." She leaned into her date, interlocking their fingers as her eyes drifted between the two other men.

He didn't bother arguing, because in all honesty he wasn't sure there was anything to argue against. Turning to hide the embarrassed flush that was creeping into his cheeks, he turned off the oven and pulled out the finished turkey. Then turning back, stripping himself of the hot pads and leaving them on the counter. "Come on, we can't leave Sherlock to decorate alone. Could be disastrous..."

John hurried over to help, resting his hand in the small of Sherlock's back as he walked up. None of the decorations had been brought out in years, John hadn't seen the point when he was alone. Soon the four of them were busy decorating the sitting room. Slowly the rest of the party began showing up. Mrs. Hudson had made her way up when she heard John turn on holiday music. Giving both boys a kiss on the cheek, she made her way to take over in the kitchen. Lestrade and Mycroft showed up together, the detectives arm still bandaged and in a sling. The last to arrive, much to John's surprise, was Harry.

John hadn't been expecting her to show up, and when he opened the door he stopped for a moment. She stood on the stoop apprehensively, a long gift bag dangling from one hand. Pulling her into a hug John murmured her name softly. He stood back to hold her out at arms length.

"You look amazing. I-... I'm so glad you're here."

Ushering her upstairs John walked around, introducing her to everyone proudly. John almost missed the look shared between her and Sherlock. Almost.

Sherlock had known when that last knock on the door came that it was John's sister. He had snuck her number from John's phone while he'd been busy cooking and had slipped off to the bathroom to call her. He had suspected from the beginning that Harry had been a big part of keeping John alive while he had been gone. Now that he knew the specifics, he knew it was much more than that. He had known John would be happy to see her, but he had selfish reasons for inviting her as well.

It was about then that Mrs. Hudson called John into the kitchen to help her set the table. He paused in the doorway to take everything in. Molly and Lestrade were sitting on the couch, their heads bowed low as they chatted away. Mycroft and Derek stood to the side of the sofa, not really talking, seemingly listening to the excited conversation taking place between the other two. Sherlock had taken up the armchair opposite Harry, he had pulled his violin from its case. Most likely showing off.

As John saw all the important people in their lives comfortable and happy he smiled, one thought on his mind as Mrs. Hudson called him again. This is our family.

Sherlock was plucking the strings quietly and lovingly as Harry sipped on the egg nogg she'd retrieved from John. Sherlock cocked his head to the side as he looked at her, really taking in how much she looked like him. They both had the warm round faces, and those bright blue eyes. He smiled softly at her and tuned one of the strings needlessly.

"Thank you for coming." his voice was so soft he was sure she was the only one that heard it.

"How could I resist meeting the man my baby brother has fallen in love with?" Her voice was just as quiet as his, eyes smiling over her cup at him. Sherlock plinked a flat note, clearly not expecting that.

"How did you-"

"How could I not?" She cut him off, "He was so hurt when you left, but he kept hope. I've never seen him act like that for anyone... you had to be something different..."

"I would assume since you-"

"What since I like women I'd accept you two?" She cut him off again, and Sherlock was surprised. He'd done this to people many times before, but never had it been done to him. She smiled wider at him, "You hurt my brother again and we'll have issues, but you make him as happy as I know you can... I'll be happy to call you my brother too."

Sherlock felt his throat closing up at her words and had to blink before looking away. "I don't intend to let anything bad happen to him ever again. Not as long as it's within my power."

"Good."

Behind them Molly and Lestrade were whispering to each other, their heads pressed close together as they schemed.

"You know they're totally denying how they really feel..." Molly said softly.

"Bloody hell, we've all known that since before he took a swan dive off of Barts." Lestrade replied with a snort.

"They'll never say anything themselves." she continued with a side look at the Detective Inspector, "We should... help them along, I found some mistletoe in one of those decoration boxes."

Greg leaned closer, "What do we do?"

A few moments later, Greg had led Derek over to where Sherlock was sitting conversing politely with Harry. "Sherlock, I was just telling Derek about that experiment you did on the coagulation of saliva after death, he seemed really interested."Sherlock, eyes bright, dove headfirst into explaining the mechanics and his findings.

Molly snuck a chair over to the doorway into the kitchen, and stepped up, taping the mistletoe to the jamb. As quickly and quietly as she could, she replaced the chair and slipped back into her seat on the couch, a huge smile splitting her face.

The small kitchen table was crowded with odd chairs to accommodate the whole group. They were elbow to elbow but it was comfortable, and they chattered easily. After the table had quieted down, and everyone had filled their plates Mycroft coughed pointedly, getting everyone's attention.

"We had planned on announcing this today, but I'm sure now most of you know." He shared a small smile with Lestrade and placed his hand over Lestrade's good one, before continuing. "In case there's any question,Greg and I are together, have been for a time now." Giving everyone a short nod he picked up his fork and began eating.

"Really Mycroft, do you have to ruin the mood by making Christmas all about you?" His voice was snarky, and he would never tell that his stomach twisted with delight. Mycroft, as insufferable as he was, deserved to be happy.

"We'll I think that's lovely," Mrs. Hudson piped up, "it's wonderful seeing you all so happy." She gazed around the table adoringly at her patchwork adopted family.

The rest of the dinner was light and jovial. Though the declaration from Mycroft hadn't been much of a surprise it sparked a question in John's mind again. He wondered, as he watched Sherlock actually socializing and happier than he'd ever seen him, could they have that? John had accepted that he had feelings for Sherlock, but publicly he'd held on to the idea that he was straight. It was something that defined him, and a part of him wasn't sure how to let go of that.

Mrs. Hudson hustled everyone into the living room with the promise they'd all be on dish duty later, because she wasn't their housekeeper. Setting everyone around the room, they passed out presents, which were opened with many thanks and smiles. Finally Mrs. Hudson with the help of Sherlock passed out deserts to everyone along with the eggnog that Lestrade had spiked at some point during the night. Harry had a cup of cider instead, and they all sat around the fire, just generally enjoying themselves.

Molly and Lestrade had taken the couch again, and she elbowed him lightly as John went to add another log. Sherlock was standing in the doorway, blocking part of it with his body, and she gave the DI a look that said, 'Green light! Go go go!'

"John, since you're up, would you mind getting me another cup of eggnog?" His smile was wide as he made the request.

"Last I checked it was your arm in a sling. Pretty sure your legs work fine." He shot Greg a look that was supposed to be a glare, but failed. Shaking his head and chuckling he finished with the fire and went to fetch more eggnog from the kitchen.

"Anyone else?" He paused to ask, one hand on the door jamb glancing back at the group. His brow furrowed as he saw everyone watching him expectantly. "What?" He asked incredulously, turning to stare at the lot.

A few pairs of eyes were jumping between John and Sherlock, and then up above their heads. After a moment, frowning softly, he looked around to see what the fuss was about. Seeing the small plastic mistletoe taped meticulously above Sherlock's head Johns mouth went dry. His eyes fell to Sherlock's as his stomach twisted in knots.

"We'll go on." Molly said leaning forward a little expectantly. Everyone else almost nodded in unison.

"I don't think..." Sherlock started, seeing the almost frightened look on John's face at the prospect. This wasn't the right time.

"God damnit man just kiss my brother already!" Came Harry's adamant response. Sherlock knew that the others wouldn't budge on this, and with a worried look turned to John. In that moment he knew he had to put the man at ease or everything he'd been working for would be for not. Pull away and he'd risk John getting the impression he wasn't interested, move too quickly and he could push him away.

Swallowing hard, he lifted his hands to John's cheeks , much like he had at the second crime scene. His thumbs came up and brushed against the smaller man's cheeks attempting to soothe his nerves. His eyes flickered back and forth in an almost apology as he leaned forward, simultaneously tilting John's head back.

When their lips met, Sherlock felt every hair on his body stand on end with an electric current that made his entire body shudder. One hand slipped around the back of the blonde's head to cradle it, the other sliding down to his waist to pull him closer. The taste of Johns lips awoke something animalistic and feral inside of him, so much so he was almost afraid for John's reaction.

John had stood frozen to the spot as Sherlock leaned in his body flooded with innate fear, but as he felt their bodies pressed together it all melted away. He couldn't hear the cat calls and awes pouring from the small audience. One hand ran up the length of Sherlock's arm to rest at the base of his neck, keeping them locked together. The other found hold on the thin hip pressed against him.

Lost in the moment his lips moved against Sherlock's encouragingly. All John could focus on was the man pressed closely to him, his fingers tangled loosely in the hair at the base of Sherlock's neck. He knew he'd had reason to worry before, but suddenly he couldn't think of a single excuse to turn away.

Sherlock's lips moved against John's as well, the feeling of the man responding made him want to devour the blonde whole. However he knew things were getting out of hand, and he forced himself to pull back slowly. The hand on John's neck coming back to rest on his cheek. Sherlock stroked it soothingly with his thumb as he smiled down at his doctor.

The hoots and hollers came back into focus and he turned, his arm still around the man's hips. He held a hand up, smiling appreciatively , trying to calm them down. He turned back to John an obviously dopey grin crossing his face, a handsome but unexpected look for the detective.

John attempted to return the reaction, but as he turned to face everyone the fear crept back in. He could feel his heart beating in his throat as his chest rose and fell shakily. The room spun dangerously below his feet as he looked back to Sherlock, mouthing wordlessly.

"I'm sorry," he finally croaked out, avoiding the eyes of everyone else in the room. "I just..." Raising a hand to his face John ran a finger along his bottom lip, trying to register what had just happened. "I need air."

He held Sherlocks penetrating gaze for a moment more before ripping his jacket from the hook and stealing from the room without a second look back at the now silent group. A moment later he was breathing heavily against the wall at the base of the stairs running his hands through his hair painfully before he could even think straight.

Sherlock turned, throwing a glare at the group, letting them know he fully blamed them for pressuring the two before running after the doctor.

"John, God John wait!" The doctor was at the door and he all but ran down the steps. When he reached the bottom, he grabbed the man's wrist, effectively stopping him from leaving.

"Please don't..." He said softly, his voice wavering with emotion. This was a moment that had kept him up at night. How had he been so selfish? He'd know John wasn't ready, he'd fucking known!

"Don't leave me John, I'm sorry. I know that was a bit not good but-"

Pulling his wrist from Sherlocks grasp John pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to focus, to understand. He had wanted this, he known he'd wanted this.

"Yeah... a bit not good..." He choked out in a mirthless laugh. Shaking his head he continued softly. "I'm not leaving... I just.."

Letting his hands fall away he looked up at Sherlock, his eyes pleading for him to let him leave.

"I'll be back. I just need to breath, I need to think."

John stepped closer and his hand reached up, his thumb running softly along the detectives prominent cheekbone and back to trace his jaw. Sherlock leaned his face into that hand, wanting to reach up and hold it, but he couldn't bear to have him pull away again. He felt his hands trembling. Things had been going so well. He knew the best thing to do was let him go. But he didn't want to. He was afraid to.

"I'm sorry too," he breathed softly before opening the door from behind him and walking out into the cold december night.

Sherlock watched him go, feeling more than just the loss of the warmth on his face. Returning upstairs, everyone tried to talk to him about what had happened, but he just raised his hand, showing that he didn't want to talk. Sitting in his chair, he steepled his fingers and barely registering the fact that dishes were being done and goodbyes were being made. Molly leaned down to kiss his cheek, and Lestrade clapped him on the back. Harry placed a hand on the shoulder and leaned down to whisper to him.

"Don't worry dear, he's probably having a pint to clear his head, he'll come around. Give him a bit." So Sherlock did. He gave him three hours when he finally got so desperate he couldn't stand it. plucking his phone from his pocket, he sent a quick text.

_Starting to worry about you - SH_

A few breaths after he sent it, his phone rang. Looking down, he saw it was John, but it wasn't just a phone call, John was sending a request for a video call. He answered to a totally black screen.

"John?" he called softly. But what he heard chilled him to the bone. A high pitched giddy voice that he didn't recognize, breathy into the speaker.

"Doctor Watson can't come to the phone right now."

**A/N:** Okay guys, this is it. The end of part one.. we won't start posting part two for about two weeks... We will be making a youtube video in the next week or so. So send us your thoughts, questions, complaints, and please don't hate us for how this ended. We love you guys so much, thank you for all the support. Part two will be called 'A Bit Worse' and part three, 'A Bit Better.' You can find us at our tumblr accounts Devokitsune and Shellybees... Also my twitter, Shellysbees


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